Contract
by mouse8
Summary: Steve tries to protect his father when he hears rumours of a contract out on Mark. Epilogue Now Up. Story Now Complete.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: "Diagnosis Murder" and the characters in it are owned by CBS and Viacom and are merely being borrowed here for recreational, non-profit purposes.  
  
Rating: G  
  
Summary: Steve tries to protect his father when he hears rumours of a contract out on Mark.  
  
Dedication: As always, this one is for Nonny, without whose encouragement I would never start, nevermind finish, a story.  
  
  


Contract  
  
  


Chapter 1  
  
Steve picked his way cautiously through the trash and assorted odorous junk in the alley, all senses on alert. It wouldn't be the first time a call to meet an informant had been the bait to entice him into a trap, and he didn't care for a repeat of the last such encounter. It might seem an unnecessary risk to arrange a meeting in such an isolated and seedy place but Steve could appreciate that being seen voluntarily talking to a cop could be a dangerous proposition to certain criminal elements. The message he had received indicated a degree of urgency that he hoped warranted the risk he was taking. Cheryl was waiting in the car a few blocks away in a slightly more salubrious area, ready to supply backup if necessary, but he was aware that this was too far away to provide immediate assistance.  
  
A shuffling noise behind some boxes on the left caused him to spin around, his back to the wall ready to defend himself, but at the emergence of a rat sniffing its way from one pile of refuse to the next, he relaxed his vigilance slightly. As he watched the rodent scuttle away, his eye was caught by the shadow of a figure moving stealthily towards him, and he quickly turned to face this new threat, but recognized the man as Eddie, the snitch he was supposed to meet. He derived some pleasure from watching him fastidiously try to avoid stepping in some of the worst patches of unidentifiable ooze. Fast Eddie was not the most reliable of sources but he had occasionally passed on information that had proved extremely useful.  
  
This had better be good, Eddie, he warned, not liking the rapacious look in the man's eyes.  
  
Oh, it's good and it's going to cost ya. He assumed an unctuous expression of regret. Word out on the street says there's a contract out on your old man.  
  
Steve searched the man's face intently for any hint of deception, anxiety coursing through him. Deciding he was in earnest, he flung the command of Stay right there, don't move! at Fast Eddie as he moved towards the mouth of the alley, pulling out his cell phone. His concerns for his own safety were subsumed by this possible threat to his father. He dialed his father's number, waiting impatiently for an answer that was unforthcoming. Forcing down his rising concern, he dialed Jesse's number and was relieved by the bright cheery response.  
Dr. Travis here.  
  
Jesse, its me. Where's Dad? he asked urgently, praying it was a false alarm.  
  
He's in surgery. What's the matter? Is something wrong? Jesse reacted to the uncharacteristic note of worry in Steve's voice.  
  
Steve breathed a sigh of relief. I'm not sure yet. I need you to stay with Dad; don't leave him alone and make sure he stays at the hospital. There's a possibility someone's gunning for him, so until I can be sure he's in no danger, alert security. I'll be there as soon as I can.  
  
Receiving Jesse's assurance that he would follow these directions, and satisfied that his Dad's immediate safety was ensured, Steve spun on his heel and headed back to the snitch. I want all the information you have, he demanded curtly.  
  
What's it worth? was the avaricious reply, and Steve had to restrain his immediate impulse, which was to throw him up against the wall and throttle him till he cooperated. He satisfied himself with a glare, and reached into his pocket for his wallet and held out five twenties.  
  
That's all I have on me, he ground out. If your information proves reliable, I'll give you more.  
  
Fast Eddie hesitated, then reached for the money and, with a flourish, it disappeared.  
  
Word on the street is someone's got a real strong grudge against Doc Sloan. Hates his guts and wants to hurt him real bad.  
  
Is that all? Steve asked with disgust, thinking for a minute he'd been conned and actually relieved that this could be the case. My dad has many enemies, that's hardly news.  
  
Not so fast, my impetuous friend. He paused tantalisingly, obviously confident in the worth of his information. How many of them have hired hitmen to take him out?  
  
What! Is this just another vague rumour or do you have something concrete for me? Any patience Steve still had left was rapidly dissolving as he tried to pin down something tangible.  
  
The hitman arrived in town this morning from the East Coast. His name is Johnny Tremelo. I knew him back in New York, not personally of course, but by sight. He worked for the mob out there; now he's for hire to the highest bidder. I saw him with my own eyes.   
  
With a sinking heart, Steve realised that this threat to his father could not be so easily dismissed as a hoax.  
  
The urgency of ascertaining the full extent of the threat facing his father had driven the need for vigilance out of Steve's mind. His back was to the mouth of the alley, and his only warning of an impending attack was the sudden widening of alarm in his informant's eyes. Steve's attentiveness may have lapsed, but there was nothing wrong with this reflexes. Yelling, Get down! he dove for cover in the one place his cop's instincts had subconsciously marked as the only reliable protection available - a dumpster of dubious vintage on the left side of the alley. As he moved, a volley of shots rang out, peppering the back of the alley and the dumpster itself. The metallic clang in the enclosed space was a shocking contrast to the earlier quiet, and Steve had to resist the urge to cover his ears. A quick glance back revealed Eddie lying in a crumpled heap on the ground.  
  
Furious at himself for being caught off guard, Steve quickly squeezed off two rounds, more to discourage his unknown assailants from advancing down the alley than in the hopes of hitting anyone. With his right hand he opened the connection on his cell phone to Cheryl.  
  
Call for backup and an ambulance NOW. His curt message was punctuated by the sound of gunfire, lending it considerable urgency, and soon the sound of a police car was clearly audible over the sporadic shooting. Obviously reluctant to face the approaching reinforcements, the gunmen disappeared back into the murky shadows.   
  
As Cheryl pulled the car to a screeching halt, Steve reholstered his weapon, confident that his assailants had indeed departed, and knelt down beside Fast Eddie. Police training, field experience and years of hanging round with doctors had taught him more than just the preliminaries necessary to deal with gunshot wounds, and he was competently staunching the flow of blood from a chest wound when Cheryl ran up, anxiously assessing his condition.  
  
You OK?  
  
I'm fine. Where's that ambulance? he snapped, afraid his informant was going to die under his hands and blaming himself for not preventing the shooting.  
  
It's on the way, and indeed Steve could now hear the distinctive siren signaling its approach. As the paramedics arrived, Steve willingly yielded his place and stood watching as his informant, survival very much in doubt, was loaded into the ambulance. Steve's mind was analyzing the attack and wondering if there was a connection to the threat to his father.  
  
What happened, Steve? Cheryl's concerned voice broke into his concentration.  
  
I'll tell you on the way to the hospital, he replied distractedly as he strode towards the car, eager to see his father and confirm his safety.  
  
Whoa, that's a nice aftershave you've picked up. Eau de garbage if I'm not mistaken, Cheryl teased him as he sat in the car, wanting to dispel the gloomy aura surrounding her friend.  
  
Steve looked down at his clothes which were indeed pungent. His desperate dive to safety in the alley had carried him through some rotting material whose origin he decided he didn't care to discover. The brief moment of humour passed as he described Fast Eddie's warning and the ensuing attack in terse tones, his mind still dwelling on the information presented. Knowing only too well the tight bond between father and son, Cheryl was sympathetic to his distraction as he lapsed into silence, and she concentrated on driving without attempting to extract more details.  
  
Speculation on the motivation behind the recent shootout cascaded through Steve's mind, and multiple possibilities were considered and weighed. It was entirely feasible, given the location and surreptitious nature of the meeting, that it was a random occurrence, maybe opportunistic criminals believing that they were horning in on a drug deal. However, every cop instinct Steve possessed told him that that explanation was too coincidental. There had been something coldblooded in the attack that seemed premeditated, although it was possible that Eddie could have been the intended target. He certainly wasn't a popular character, but Steve knew that the same could be said for him in certain quarters. It could even have been a preemptive strike to remove him before attempting to kill his father. Steve couldn't shake the suspicion that he had been set up, despite the injuries suffered by Eddie. In the instant before the shooting started, he had seen something in Eddie's expression that, with hindsight, made him suspect that the snitch had been expecting the attack and was surprised only by the form it took.   
  
The myriad potential explanations failed to resolve themselves into one obvious answer, and Steve rubbed his head trying to disperse the incipient headache. The only clear feeling he could grasp was that the danger to his father was real and imminent.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2  
  
Jesse was bouncing nervously on his toes as Mark emerged from a long session in surgery. Despite his fatigue, Mark's quick eye was instantly caught by the worry in the young doctor's expression and, more alarmingly, by the uniformed officer behind him. Immediately his mind swung without conscious volition to the painful fear that ran as a permanent undercurrent to his life, normally kept at bay by the exigencies of work and everyday concerns but erupting periodically in agonizing spouts when his son was injured in the line of duty.  
  
Jesse noticed Mark's steps falter and the sudden apprehension on his face, and he had no difficulty interpreting the cause. However, in deference to Mark's feelings, he chose to address his concern obliquely.   
  
"Steve called. I don't know what it's about exactly, but he seems to think you're in need of protection. So here it is," he said brightly, waving his hand in the direction of the man whom Mark now recognised as one of the Community General security guards.  
  
Mark relaxed, focusing solely on the first two words of Jesse's statement, conscious for a moment only of relief that his worst fears were unrealized. Jesse watched the effect of his words with rueful amusement, reflecting that only Mark could look so relieved at hearing that his life was in danger.  
  
"He'll be here in a minute to explain... you know... about the threat to your life," Jesse emphasized in an effort to encourage his friend to recognize the danger to him personally. Mark grinned at him unrepentantly, understanding the implied rebuke, but refusing to worry about it.  
  
"Then let's go to meet him." As they walked along the corridors to the ER, Tomlinson, the security guard, in tow, Jesse filled Mark in on the little he knew. He attempted to quote Steve's warning verbatim, then related the circumstances of Cheryl's emergency call. Mark listened intently, but the scant information offered little on which to base a theory so he refrained from speculating out loud until Steve arrived.  
  
There was a flurry of movement when the ambulance arrived. As Jesse and one of the other ER doctors carted the wounded man off into surgery, Mark spotted his son entering the building. His confident stride clearly indicated the he was indeed uninjured, despite the considerable blood stains that seemed to besmirch his clothes.  
  
"Is any of that blood yours?" Mark demanded, raking his son with a diagnostic appraisal to confirm his original impression. He was quickly satisfied that Steve was not concealing any injuries, and on closer examination, he realized that not all the stains were sanguinary in nature. As he drew even nearer, he made a second and less pleasant discovery.  
  
"What is that awful smell?" he exclaimed, seconds before realizing exactly the source from which the rancorous odor was emanating. On the receiving end of a glare from his son, he started laughing helplessly, holding his arm up in a warding gesture, the release of tension adding to his amusement. Steve moved towards him in a mock threat, a distinct twinkle in his eye, and his father backed off, still laughing, holding his hands up in surrender.  
  
"No don't touch me, that is absolutely disgusting. What is that stuff on your shoulder, it smells like......"  
  
Steve cut him off. "You don't want to know," he said with resignation.  
  
"Come on, you can't wander round the hospital like that. This is supposed to be a sterile environment. Go and take a shower in the locker room and put on some clean clothes." Several years ago Mark had decided to maintain a spare set of clothes in his locker for the all too frequent occasions when his son showed up as a patient in the ER.  
  
"A shower would be great!" Steve said with feeling. "However, Dad, we need to talk _now_."   
  
Mark responded to his son's sudden gravity by sobering up himself, but he still insisted on the shower before discussing any matters of importance. "Or I'll be sitting too far away from you to hear anything you say."   
  
Steve hesitated, resistant to the idea of letting his father out of his sight, but he acquiesced on the condition that his father stay in the doctor's lounge with the guard outside while he waited.  
  
The shower felt wonderful, and he luxuriated in the clean feeling. As the hot water beat down, Steve had time to consider how to broach the subject of the death threat. He had sent Cheryl back to the station to file a report and start investigating Johnny Tremelo, but he didn't expect to hear back from her for a while, so there was nothing official to bolster his own suspicions and feelings of trepidation. In Steve's opinion, his father took entirely too cavalier an attitude to his own safety, and now he had the difficult task of convincing him to take this current threat seriously. A germ of an idea took root and, by the time Steve walked towards the doctor's lounge, it had blossomed into a promising plan of action. Tomlinson was in position outside the door, and Steve was pleased to find Amanda inside with his father. He knew that he could count on her support to persuade his father to accept some security measures. Both of them looked at him expectantly as he entered, but Mark gave him a cup of coffee before asking him any questions.  
  
Steve recounted his recent experiences, downplaying the element of personal danger, making his impromptu dive behind the dumpster seem more humorous than life-saving, even if he didn't expect it to fool his father. At the end, Mark looked more thoughtful than concerned at the implied threat to his life but, just as he was about to comment, Steve jumped in.  
  
"I'll call the Captain, and we can have you in a safe house tonight."  
  
Mark's mouth, which had opened to speak, hung open in amazement for a moment, then he said cautiously, - "Don't you think that's a slight overreaction?"  
  
"No," Steve said firmly and launched into what he hoped was a strong defense of his strategy. "This is the only way to guarantee your safety. A hitman could get through any defenses we could set up here or at home. This way, no assassin can find you."  
  
Typically, Mark put his finger on the weakest point of this theory. "What makes you think there's a hitman at all? It sounds to me like it was a set-up from start to finish and you were the intended victim. Steve, I can't just stop work at a moment's notice and disappear for a few days because of a vague threat. I have patients and students who need me here now."  
  
"He was telling the truth, Dad. I believed him." Steve looked straight at Mark, meeting his eyes with complete sincerity. He didn't see the need to mention his private reservations that Fast Eddie had not been totally forthcoming in all the details. "Please, just lay low for a bit and give me a chance to deal with this."  
  
"He has a point, Mark," Amanda chimed in, her concern obvious. "Remember what happened the time Rosser was after you?"   
  
Steve mentally blessed her for introducing this point. It had been Amanda herself and Norman Briggs who had been hurt on that occasion, and if anything could make Mark pay attention, it was the possibility of innocent bystanders being hurt instead of him.  
  
Mark frowned, consideringly. " I promise I'll take every reasonable precaution but I can't stop working every time there's a rumor of danger. Not until there's proof of something more substantial. I won't take any impromptu walks on the hospital grounds or stand invitingly in front of any windows. How about that?"  
  
"I'm bringing you to work and back again everyday," Steve added grimly, the vision of his father's car exploding still clear in his mind after many years. In that instant, he had truly believed his father was dead, and the memory of that horrific moment was still capable of giving him nightmares. He wasn't about to take the chance of a repetition of that event.  
  
"That sounds like a good compromise," Amanda commented, pleased that an agreement had been reached that they could all live with. Mark looked at his son, eyes twinkling, and Steve, although he tried to maintain an innocent expression, knew his father had, as always, seen through his plan. These concessions had been his goal from the start, the safe house merely a threat to ease the acceptance of greater precautions. He thought wryly, but also with pride, that it would be a cold day in hell before he could outmaneuver his father.   
  
The three of them sat chatting, discussing the putative threat and its ramifications until Jesse arrived. The young doctor slumped into a chair with a big sigh as the others watched him with concern. "He's alive, but it's not looking good. I'm sorry, Steve. Was he a friend of yours?"  
  
"No." Steve shook his head, feeling a sense of guilt, that he saw no need to voice, that he had put self-preservation before protection.  
  
"It wasn't your fault, son," Mark interrupted his brooding. "I'm just glad it isn't you lying down there." As usual, his father had uncannily followed his thought process, and the obviously heartfelt sentiment diminished his guilt, leaving him relieved that he hadn't inflicted that particular anguish on his father again. A silent acknowledgment of the fact passed between them, a moment of perfect understanding. Steve reflected how incredibly lucky he was to have a father who always stood ready to offer support of whatever kind he needed. He wasn't going to allow anything to happen to him. A feeling of renewed determination flowed through him, and he broke eye contact with his father to turn to Jesse.  
  
"I need to talk to Eddie, Jess. Any idea when that might be possible?"  
  
Jesse looked doubtful. "At the moment I don't know if he'll ever recover consciousness. And if he does, there's a bullet lodged against his spine. He's far too weak for the delicate surgery necessary to remove it now, but it needs to come out or he will probably be paralyzed for life. That's a job for a specialist, not me. Who would you suggest I call in, Mark?"  
  
"I'd call Bill Stedman in for the consult. He's the best I know in this area."  
  
"Isn't he the one who perfected the new microspinoscopy techniques?" Jesse asked eagerly.  
  
"Yes, that's Bill. I've known him since medical school; he's a good friend."  
  
As the doctors continued to discuss the finer points of portals and minimally invasive techniques, Steve got up to leave. "Dad, I'll be back later to pick you up."   
  
As he went out the door, he took a minute to explain the situation to Tomlinson and asked him to keep a careful watch. On the verge of departing from the hospital, Steve hesitated, suddenly loathe to leave. It was absurd to imagine his mere presence could guarantee protection, but leaving felt like desertion. His father was altogether too vulnerable here. He should have felt pleased to have successfully wrung the acceptance of security precautions out of his father, but instead he felt as if he were making a huge mistake not insisting on the safe house, however impractical it was. 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3  
  
The last few days had passed deceptively quietly, Steve thought, as he washed the dishes after supper, but he had a feeling that this was just the calm before the storm. Mark, sensing his son's anxiety and not wishing to add to his stress, had meticulously followed all the security precautions set up for him without complaint, and, as he put it wryly to Amanda, no bombs, bullets or even banana skins had come his way. Steve ferried his father to and from work, varying the time and route without comment and keeping a vigilant watch at all times. He had installed a new, sophisticated alarm system which Mark secretly hated but endured with his usual good humour, hoping his son's over-protectiveness would abate if no further provocation was offered.  
  
However, contrary to these hopes, Steve's concern was increasing, spiraling up in a slowly building storm of fear and fury, fueled by the rumours from the street. From several different sources now, too many to be a coincidence, he had heard the same distressing report - someone who hated his father with a passion had hired a hitman who was even now looking to fulfill his contract. Despite the pervasiveness of this rumour, no one had more specific details to offer. Only Fast Eddie had identified the potential assassin, and, as yet, there was no confirmation of Tremelo's presence in LA.  
  
Johnny Tremelo was indeed a hitman who had worked initially for the mob before branching out into independent contracting. He was known to the police on the East Coast more by reputation than by first-hand acquaintance. He had never been arrested, and there were no photographs of him available except for one grainy picture taken by a cop on a stakeout. In it, his facial features were partly obscured and impossible to make out clearly, so apart from contributing the knowledge that he was white and of average build, it did little to help. Steve was still trying to find more information on his modus operandi and known associates.  
  
The tenuous nature of the corroborating evidence left Steve very much on edge. Captain Newman, knowing the futility of trying to prevent him, had allowed him to follow up what leads there were in the case, and he did so with a single-minded intensity that left little room for such niceties as negotiation and cooperation. Cheryl had run interference for him whenever possible, both with the other officers in their department and with potential suspects. Steve was normally capable of maintaining his cool under the most strenuous and provoking of circumstances. Although certainly capable of meting out violence, it was always an appropriate and measured response to a situation - with one exception. The one thing guaranteed to break through his self-control was danger to his father. Such a threat, whether offered by a fellow policeman or a criminal, was met with an instant and heated reaction. He had barely restrained himself today from hitting a suspect who, in his opinion, had taken an unholy delight in his father's predicament.  
  
I think it's clean now. Mark's amused voice from behind him brought him back to his dish washing with a start, and he realized he had been cleaning the same plate for several minutes.  
  
You want to play a game of chess? Mark suggested, eager to divert his son from his morose thoughts. Steve was looking exhausted, his face shadowed and taut, and Mark knew for a fact that he spent most of the night prowling the house, unable to sleep.  
  
You mean, do I want to get _beaten_ in a game of chess, Steve commented wryly. Why not, maybe I'll surprise you and actually last ten minutes.  
  
This time, however, wasn't to be such an auspicious occasion; which was hardly surprising since Steve was so obviously distracted, and he soon tipped his king over in defeat. Sorry, Dad, he apologized ruefully. I guess I'm not in the mood.  
  
Mark looked at his son in affectionate exasperation. You can't keep pushing yourself like this, he remonstrated. He hated to see Steve so tense, and, after a brief hesitation, he made a genuine, if slightly reluctant, suggestion. If you really want me to go away on vacation or something I'll try to organize it. I'll disappear for a while.  
  
Steve looked up, startled. Thanks, Dad. I really appreciate that, he said warmly. He understood what a sacrifice it was for his father to make that offer, and he also understood the motivation behind it. He wanted to accept, but found he couldn't inflict the isolation and boredom he knew it would entail on Mark without further proof of the need for such an ordeal. I'll think about it, he promised, wanting to keep his options open.  
  
He stood up and started pacing restlessly around the room, his pent-up energy needing some release. Who would want you dead and why now? It was mostly a rhetorical question, since they had covered this ground a multitude of times. There were no obvious candidates, no one recently released from jail swearing vengeance, no old enemies resurfacing.  
  
Mark regarded his son thoughtfully, physically still, but his mind active, assessing categories of people who might harbor a grudge. Maybe we've.... His sentence was never completed, as his train of thought was derailed by the kitchen window suddenly shattering in front of him. Before he had time to blink, a heavy weight slammed into him and bore him over backwards and he was on the floor behind the couch. Slightly stunned by the impact, it took him a minute to realise that Steve had tackled him to the ground and was now covering him as bullets peppered the wall above them.   
  
Suddenly terrified that Steve had been hit, he tried to wiggle out from under the weight holding him down, but stopped, reassured, when Steve hissed in his ear, - Stay down. Unless they have infra-red sights, which I doubt, they're shooting blind, probably trying to scare us out of the house and into the sights of another shooter waiting out front. Just hold still for now.   
  
There was still eerily little sound, just little thuds and the occasional crash as something breakable was hit and Mark realised that the gun must be silenced. When the shooting seemed to pause for a minute, Steve pulled his father up and, still shielding him with his body, slipped them through the doorway and into the center of the house. Mark felt him flinch as the shots resumed, but he didn't have time to ask questions, as Steve quickly moved him into a cupboard under the stairs where they kept cleaning supplies.   
  
You alright? Steve asked urgently. At his father's nod, he passed him the cellphone. Call for backup and, whatever happens, sit tight. I mean it, Dad. The last thing I need is to shoot you by accident. He held his father's gaze for a minute, long enough to receive his assurance, then he was gone, closing the door behind him.   
  
Be careful, Mark whispered after him, his fingers already fumbling for the buttons. He placed the call in a calm, authoritative tone that nonetheless conveyed the urgency of the situation, then closed the connection, straining his ears to hear and interpret the events happening outside. The only sound distinguishable was that of the occasional breaking glass, from which Mark deduced that the silenced gun outside was still taking potshots. He prayed that none of them would find their mark in his son in the five minutes or so it would take for the LAPD to arrive.   
  
Suddenly, a loud burst of gunfire split the silence, and Mark realised with horror that it was coming from the front of the house. Steve was caught between two lines of fire. Mark shut his eyes, desperation flooding through him, every muscle and sinew in his body yearning to go to his son's assistance. He was revolted by the notion of hiding in safety while Steve put his life at risk to protect him. As the seconds ticked by, the only things that held him in place were his promise to his son and the bitter knowledge that he was more of a liability in this situation than an asset. His presence would be a distraction, and Steve had to concentrate on his own survival now.  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4  
  
Steve crouched near the doorway to the kitchen, gun in hand, listening intently for further signs of attack. He was a veteran of many fire fights and, although the accompanying sensations were not feelings that he had become accustomed to, he had learnt how to make the adrenaline work for him, sharpening his senses and accelerating his reflexes. For now he waited, knowing time was on his side. The police would be here soon, and he was fairly certain he could hold the gunmen off for that short time or at least prevent them from finding his father. He literally had the home advantage. He could find his way around this house blindfolded; every nook, cranny and creaking board were known to him. He had flipped the breaker to turn off all the lights, but even if an intruder was equipped with night goggles, he believed he could still maneuver with more confidence and ability.  
  
A bullet whizzed by his head, implanting itself in the wall with an unpleasant thwack, and Steve flattened himself nearer the ground. This proved to be a fortunate move since the shot was a prelude to a staccato burst of gunfire from an unsilenced gun positioned near the front of the house. That'll wake the neighbors, Steve thought grimly, hoping none of them would be stupid enough to investigate the commotion. The noise almost camouflaged the tinkle of breaking glass from downstairs and he realised that someone had broken into his apartment. He waited for the tell-tale creak of the fifth stair to inform him they were ascending the stairs, then retreated to a safer position.  
  
As he watched two figures move into the kitchen, a wave of cold fury surged through him at the thought of these men trying to kill his father in his own house. Anger swept away the last remnants of his hesitation. His eyes had become accustomed to the dark and he could just make out the goggles over the eyes of the intruders as they were silhouetted against the windows. Night vision was a considerable advantage for them, and he mentally revised his next move in this lethal cat and mouse game. His main objective was to lead them away from his father so he moved silently but swiftly upstairs, then deliberately trod heavily on a squeaky board to alert the men to his location. He moved to lie, gun outstretched ready in front of him, behind the doorway of the master bedroom. Only the most careful examination with the infra-red would reveal any part of him. He waited, not moving an inch, but feeling his heartbeat thud against the floorboards, seeming to reverberate through the very framework of the house. For a instant all was still, and for a sickening moment he feared that he had failed to entice the intruders to follow him and had left his father defenceless against them downstairs. He was getting ready to move when finally he sensed rather than saw shadows moving up the stairwell.  
  
They cautiously advanced, the angle of the stairs bringing them up perpendicular to the door where Steve waited, thereby offering him maximum concealment.   
  
Police! Hold it.....! he shouted, ingrained training not allowing him to fire without first identifying himself as a police officer, but, as the semi-automatic weapon swung towards him, he squeezed off a shot. He knew instinctively that he had hit his mark and this was confirmed as one man fell backwards, but his companion's gun spat out a violent stream of bullets that would have cut Steve in half if he'd had stayed in the same place to receive them. As it was the bullets narrowly missed as he first rolled then, keeping low, ran into the joining bathroom and through it into a second bedroom on the other side, trusting the cacophony of the shots to mask what little sound he was making.   
  
Within seconds he was back in another doorway opening onto the hallway. The remaining gunman was following his path, moving into the first bedroom and now there was only one direction Steve could safely move and that was further down the hall into the third and smallest bedroom that had been his as a child. It was a dead end, the only possible exit out being the window, an option he had considered but rejected as it would leave him clearly exposed to the gunman outside. He flattened himself against the wall in a small niche contained in the same wall as the door, not visible from the doorway. There he waited, following the barely audible progress of his assailant through the two bedrooms and bathroom. However, having lost his cohort to Steve's bullet, the assassin's movements was extremely cautious and before he arrived in the hallway the sound of several sirens approaching intruded into the silence.  
  
A vicious curse was followed by footsteps running downstairs. After some indistinct shouting, two shadowy figures raced away from the house towards the beach. Steve threw open a window shouting Police, stay where you are. As the two men turned in response, each suddenly jerked in quick succession and dropped bonelessly to the ground as Steve watched in shocked incomprehension. It took him a minute to remember the shooter with the silenced gun. he breathed, suddenly sure of the identity of the surviving gunman. As if in response, a dark figure stepped out of the shadows for just a moment, sketched a mocking salute in his direction then vanished.  
  
You bastard! Steve checked an impulse to climb out of the window in pursuit, recognizing the futility of such an action as an engine roared into life and a vehicle sped away across the sands. He could hear the police at the front of the house, and suddenly wanted nothing more than to check that his father was unhurt. He padded downstairs, pausing at the bottom to kick the gun away from the fallen body lying crumpled there and check its pulse. He confirmed the man was dead and was unable to summon much regret under the circumstances. Passing the fuse box, he put the lights on again, blinking as the illumination suddenly transformed his surroundings and he made a corresponding mental transition from hunter back into police officer. He reholstered his weapon hastily as his reinforcements burst through the front door, holding his hands high to reinforce his harmlessness. He knew all the officers who entered and quickly directed them to the fallen bodies. Before he opened the cupboard door he called out, Its me, Dad, and was happy he had as Mark lowered the broomstick he'd been wielding. Each eyed the other with undisguised relief.  
  
Steve extended a hand to help him out of the cupboard then turned to lead him into the kitchen.  
  
Steve, your back! Mark exclaimed sharply, seeing his son's shirt bloody and torn.  
  
In the heat of the excitement Steve had genuinely forgotten the brief, searing pain slicing across his skin below his shoulder blade as he had hurried his father to cover. Oh, it's just a scratch, it doesn't hur...OW! Well, he amended, it didn't hurt until you did that.  
  
Mark touched the wound lightly. The bullet had left a shallow furrow that was messy and bleeding, but certainly in no way life-threatening. Yet it was a visible symbol of just how close Steve had come to being killed and as such it shook him although he tried to hide his reaction. It needs to be seen to, he said brusquely.  
  
Steve was about to object, citing more important priorities, but seeing his father's face he stopped. With sudden empathy he realised just how difficult the last 10 minutes or so had been for his father. He knew from experience that it was often harder to be forced to wait while a loved one was in danger than it was to be the one facing the threat. Mark needed to be useful now.  
  
Let's do it in the kitchen. I'll explain what happened. He led the way through the house, inwardly wincing at the damage to some of his father's most prized possessions. Mark, however, seemed oblivious to the bullet holes and smashed decorations; he merely collected his medicine bag and started treating his son's back in silence. Captain Newman and two other officers joined them as Steve made his report in military style - unemotional, and containing only those details essential to convey the necessary facts. Of those present, only Mark had the imagination and maybe the inclination to mentally recreate the suffocating dark and menacing silence sufficiently to understand something of the impact the experience must have had. As he finished dressing Steve's back, Mark allowed his hand to linger on his son's shoulder for a moment in silent support.   
  
The denouement of Steve's story brought identical reactions of shock and surprise from his listeners. You think he shot those men to avoid them identifying him if caught? Mark asked doubtfully.  
  
Or because they failed in their objective? Newman suggested.  
  
Steve nodded, not necessarily disagreeing with their evaluation but unable to put into words his feelings that the killings had also been a gesture in the nature of a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down for him to accept.  
  
Don't you have any idea who could be behind all this? Newman asked Mark in frustration.  
  
Mark shook his head, slightly unnerved by the idea that someone could hate him this much. He had dedicated his life to helping people and would be happy to be on friendly terms with everyone, but he had never shied away from confrontations if it would ensure another's well-being. He remembered something his father had told him, You can know a man by the quality of his enemies' and wondered what this incident said about him. Most of the people I've.....annoyed would rather have the pleasure of shooting me themselves. It takes a different brand of hate to actually hire someone to do your killing for you. No, I really don't know, he concluded.  
  
So where do you want to go from here? the Captain asked, deferring to Steve's opinion both as lead investigator in the case and as a son with a huge personal stake in resolving the issue.  
  
First and foremost, I want my Dad in protective custody, preferably out of town. Steve stated firmly.  
  
Newman looked across at Mark, fully expecting a protest from that strong-willed individual, but none was forthcoming. Mark had learnt a lesson from the Rosser affair, and recent events had borne it in on him strongly that if he stayed in the open Tremelo _would_ come after him again, and when he did, Steve would inevitably be standing between them and would be the first to be hurt. He couldn't endanger the life of his son.   
  
Can I get some things together? he asked quietly. As he left Newman turned to Steve.  
  
You do realise that if your Dad disappears it'll only drive Tremelo underground. We might have a better chance of catching him if he stays here, under guard of course.  
  
Steve looked at his Captain in disbelief. We are not staking my Dad out as some kind of bait, he stated coldly. This isn't some whacko with a grudge, this is a professional. You know it's impossible to protect someone from a hit if the killer if good enough, determined enough. It doesn't matter if he's the President of the United States. I'm not taking that chance.   
  
He could hardly admit to himself, never mind express to Newman, his deepest fear, the nightmare that kept him awake and prowling the house in the dark, that somehow Tremolo would get past him if Mark stayed here. He knew he could never forgive himself if he failed his father.  
  
The Captain ignored the blatant insubordination from his Lieutenant, not really expecting any other response to his suggestion but he had one more difficult question to pose as Mark rejoined them at the table. Steve, are you thinking of joining the detail protecting your father, or do you intend to stay on the case here?  
  
Involuntarily Steve caught his father's eyes, startled. In the tumult of recent events, he had failed to think through all the ramifications of the choice to hide his father. Indecision showed clearly on his face. Every instinct told him to go with his father. Steve had always been protective of those around him; that was one of the main reasons he was such a good police officer. At an early age he had appointed himself as guardian of his sister, and when she left the bond between father and son, always strong, intensified. After a few heart-stopping close calls in recent years, Steve had become more protective of his father than ever, believing with total conviction that Mark's safety was his responsibility. To relinquish this charge into the hands of others at this critical juncture was almost unthinkable. However, the purpose of a safe house was that bodyguards were, in theory, redundant and he knew he could be of far more use in charge of the case. In fact, because of his intimate knowledge of his father's life, he was the only person who could effectively investigate both Mark's medical and detective careers for potential threats.  
  
Unable to resolve his own internal conflict, Steve searched his father's face for a clue to his feelings on the matter. It was important that he felt safe. He had been uncharacteristically quiet since the attack and it worried Steve. If Mark so much as hinted that he would feel more secure with Steve there, Steve would have no hesitation handing the investigation over to another officer. However, all he saw in his father's face was understanding of his dilemma.  
  
I'm not staying in some motel room eating fast food forever, he said with an expression of mock horror. No insult intended to your other fine officers, he added hastily to Newman, but there's no one else I would trust to figure this out.  
  
The fact that his father's reasoning so clearly mirrored his own swung Steve's decision in favour of remaining behind. Things moved swiftly after that. With Steve's approval, Newman called two of his men to take Mark to a safe house. After Steve personally checked the perimeter, Mark got into the car ready to leave. Steve was going to escort the car out of town to make sure that no one was following it, but now he had to say goodbye, not an easy thing to do, and he postponed it as long as possible, more comfortable with action than emotion.  
  
Mark took advantage of his position in the car to watch his son, unabashedly proud of his courage and competence and agonizingly aware of the danger he was leaving him exposed to. Intellectually he understood and even agreed with the decision, but emotionally he was torn. He wanted to protect his son but he also felt that separating was a mistake, that they should stand together, working as a team, as they had so often and so successfully in the past. Divide and Conquer' he thought, considering the possibility that they were unintentionally following their antagonist's plan. He hated to be sidelined at a time like this. A chill ran through him as he realised that Steve could be injured or worse and he would remain oblivious. He needed a way to stay in touch, to participate, from afar if necessary, in the investigation. Here it seemed that Steve had anticipated his wishes. When he finally made his way to the car, he half knelt by the open door and held out a cellphone.  
  
Here Dad, take this. It's the phone I was using on that undercover assignment last month. The only people with the number are the Captain and Cheryl. It's really for emergencies but if you need me for any reason, call.   
  
He hesitated, wanting to express how much he regretted not being able to be on hand to protect his father, but he could see by Mark's expression that he already knew. Words between them had always been unnecessary. Mark leaned forward.  
  
Don't take any chances, son. Tremelo doesn't care who he hurts.  
  
We'll get him, Dad, don't you worry. Steve asserted with more confidence than he really felt.  
  
For a moment no one moved, they both needed the connection, and neither wanting to actually say a goodbye that seemed entirely too final. In the end, Steve just nodded, squeezed his father's shoulder in farewell and closed the car door.  
  
Mark's car left and, as prearranged, Steve followed it at a discreet distance, employing all his hard-earned skills to ensure that neither car was being followed. This became easier as they left the crowded freeways and as the lead car turned up a little used road towards the mountains, Steve pulled off, satisfied that there was no tail. He watched the tail lights dwindling into the distance, they rounded a corner and were gone.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5  
  
Five days later, Steve strode into Community General, laden with a box of files. He had set up a meeting with Jesse and Amanda to see if their combined knowledge of his father and his cases could uncover some more likely suspects, since his current investigation was on the point of stalling.  
  
He dumped the files in the doctor's lounge, but, as his friends hadn't arrived yet, he decided to visit Fast Eddie and check on his progress. As he entered the room, he was momentarily surprised to found it occupied by more than just his informant, but he quickly recognised the man studying the patient charts.  
  
Bill, its good to see you. He moved forward with his hand outstretched to greet his father's old friend. How's Mary?  
  
The other man withdrew his hand rather abruptly. I wouldn't know. Our divorce was finalised last month.  
  
I'm sorry to hear that, Steve said uncomfortably. It was a guaranteed conversation stopper, and he decided not to follow up with any further personal enquiries. How's the patient? he asked, nodding towards the bed.  
  
No change, and I'm not really expecting any. His injuries were too severe. However, I'm glad I bumped into you. I need to talk to your father about one of the patients that I'm covering for him in his absence. Can you give me a number where I can contact him?  
  
Mark had asked that no one at the hospital, except for Jesse and Amanda, be informed about the real circumstances of his departure, since he didn't want to cause any concern.  
  
I'm sorry, Steve informed him with real regret. That isn't going to be possible.  
  
Stedman's eyebrows drew together in a frown of displeasure. That is totally unacceptable. Your father is the Chief of Internal Medicine in this hospital. He can't just disappear at a moment's notice without leaving a means of communicating with him. It's absurd. I know Mannings and Narimba need to talk to him too. I expected more responsibility from him.  
  
Steve could appreciate his position, and knew how upset Mark would be if anything should happen to his patients because of his absence.  
  
Will you be home tonight? he asked, thinking fast. On receiving an affirmative answer, he continued, I'll see if I can get a message to my father to call you tonight.  
  
Stedman's face relaxed somewhat. That would be acceptable, thank you.  
  
Steve made his escape as quickly as politeness allowed, and walked back to the doctor's lounge where Jesse and Amanda were now waiting for him with stacks of files of their own. They both greeted Steve warmly, having only seen him for brief periods recently as he entered the hospital late at night to collapse in an exhausted sleep in his father's office for all too brief a time before departing again.   
  
Have you been in contact with Mark? Amanda asked at once.  
  
Steve nodded. I've been in touch a couple of times, but we have to keep contact to a minimum. He sounded cheerful on the phone, but he must be getting really frustrated. His life is here, and I don't know how long I can keep him kicking his heels in limbo if nothing breaks at this end soon. Oh, that reminds me, Dr Stedman said he needed to talk to Dad about some patients. Is Dad's absence getting to be a problem here?  
  
He's certainly missed, Jesse admitted, and I would really like to consult with him on a couple of patients, but for goodness sake don't tell him that - at least not until this is all over.  
  
That was a sentiment that Steve wholeheartedly endorsed. Neither did he intend to admit to his father or his friends the lengths to which he was willing to go to try to resolve the situation. It was Jesse who made such a confession impossible to avoid with his next comment.  
  
Actually, I'd hoped you could ask Mark to call me last night, but I couldn't find you. Where were you all night?  
  
Since the shooting at the Beach House and his father's departure, Steve had been sleeping every night in Mark's office, despite offers by both Jesse and Amanda to share their living space. His choice was determined largely by an unwillingness to inadvertently involve his friends in a potentially deadly situation. He was quite aware of his position as the only viable conduit to his father, and, as no other leads to the killer had worked out, he had decided, with Newman's permission and support, to attempt to use that role to their advantage and lure the killer into the open. He had spent last night at the Beach House, Cheryl and two other officers undercover nearby, hoping the killer would make a move. He had spent most of the night cleaning up broken glass and pottery, attempting to make the house habitable for his father's eventual return, but to his disappointment, nothing untoward had occurred. Tremelo seemed more like a phantom of the night, a figment of the imagination, than a flesh and blood opponent.  
  
Steve's hesitation and look of guilt were all that were needed for his perspicacious friends to put two and two together.  
  
You went home, didn't you, Jesse cried accusingly.  
  
Steve, how could you! Amanda joined in with a more serious condemnation. Do you have any idea what it would do to Mark if you got yourself killed while he's away?  
  
I had backup. It was a tactical move, not just a reckless whim, Steve defended himself, though in the back of his mind he knew that some of the risks he had taken in an attempt to draw out Tremelo in the last few days had been imprudent to say the least. Besides, nothing happened. There was never a sign of Tremelo.  
  
He tried to conceal how deeply this fact disturbed him. In the last 5 days, he had never spotted a tail or any signs of someone observing him. If Tremelo wasn't trying to use him as a means to find Mark, how was he intending to fulfill his contract? The thought that the hitman might have found an alternative route to his father had Steve tossing and turning at night. What little sleep he had was broken by nightmares of the hitman tracking down his father and he would wake sweating, the dreams disturbing in their intensity.  
  
Tremelo is a dead end for now. There's not a trace of him; but I do have some new information that might help. It seems he's a shooter, there are no bombs or other fancy paraphernalia on his rap sheet, thank goodness. One interesting fact is that this is not the first time he's hired a group of local thugs to assist, then taken them out when they've become a liability.  
  
Jesse said, taken aback. You'd have to be really stupid to hire on with him.  
  
Or basically uninformed, Amanda corrected him.  
  
Or just plain greedy, Jesse added, on a roll.  
  
Well, whatever their personal shortcomings, they're dead, Steve quelled his friends enthusiastic speculations. None of their acquaintances know anything useful about who hired them, so that's another dead end. However, there is one piece of information about Tremelo that seems worth pursuing. It seems he gets paid at least $500,000 for each job now.  
  
Someone's willing to pay half a million bucks to off Mark! Jesse exclaimed in awe, but at the look on Steve's face he changed his tone to one of disapproval. That's terrible...awful...heinous...reprehensible.  
  
Steve tried not to smile, but his friend's irrepressible nature successfully lightened his mood, which, of course, was his intention. He knew that Jesse's insouciant attitude sprang not out of disrespect or lack of concern for Mark, but more out of a boundless faith in the Sloans to extricate themselves from any predicament. Steve only wished he shared that belief, but his inability to effectively help his father had diminished his usual self-confidence.  
  
The last time we went through the files, we were looking for motive; I've examined every case with a strong motive and come up with zip, so now we'll concentrate on means. Who can afford at least half a million dollars?  
  
For the next three hours, the three friends poured over the files, exchanging only the occasional aside, until they each had a short list of possibilities; then they narrowed it down further till they had two promising suspects with which to start.  
  
I remember this guy vividly, Jesse commented, holding a file labeled Charles Mills. He was so arrogant, thinking that money could buy him anything he wanted, but he did seem genuinely devoted to his wife. There was nothing Mark could do to save her, the cancer was too advanced, but Mills was absolutely furious when she died and blamed Mark. He tried to sue him, but nothing came of it.  
  
It's a similar story with this one, Amanda commented. Ms. Stolz was devastated by the death of her granddaughter, and she made some remarks that could be construed as threatening. She's as rich as Croesus, half a million would be a drop in the bucket for her. Why don't Jesse and I go out and have a talk with her while you interview Mills?  
  
Absolutely not, Steve said firmly. I know you guys want to help, but please just stay out of this right now. I'll let you know when there's something you can do, but for now you've been a big help giving me some new directions to explore. I'll see you later.  
  
Steve did his best to ignore the crestfallen faces of his friends as he left the room, reassuring himself that he was only trying to keep them safe. He returned to the station to bring Cheryl up to date with the new developments and to start investigating their new suspects. He turned up nothing suspicious on Ms. Stolz, and a quick interview with her confirmed his belief that her outburst against his father had been driven more by the grief of the moment than by any long-standing grudge, and that she harboured no permanent ill-will against the doctor.  
  
Mills was a different matter. It was quickly clear from his ruthless business dealings and the brutal treatment of his workers, that he was a man quite capable of hiring a hitman to do his dirty work for him. Steve was not an expert on financial dealings, but he knew enough to recognise that the particular distribution of his companies and especially the placement of investments and accounts in Eastern Europe would expedite the laundering of dirty money. Even more incriminating in Steve's mind was the recent transfer of considerable sums of money into a newly opened account there. There were also vague rumours of ties to the mob on the East Coast that could provide a connection to Tremelo.  
  
That afternoon, Steve and Cheryl drove to his central office building and were soon ushered into his presence. Mills was a strongly built man, imposing in stature, although not quite as tall as Steve. As he introduced himself, Steve was sure he saw a flicker of recognition in the man's eyes.   
  
What can I do for you, officers? Mills asked bluntly with a minimum of courtesy.   
  
We appreciate you seeing us on such short notice, Steve said, struggling to conceal an instinctive dislike of the man. We have some questions to ask you about a case we're working on.  
  
Mills raised an eyebrow. Should I call my lawyer?  
  
Cheryl reassured him. You certainly have that right, sir, but I can assure you that this is a routine procedure. We have to follow all leads, I'm sure you understand.  
  
In that case, I will, of course, do everything I can to assist you, Mills promised her unctuously.  
  
With a swift glance across at Steve, Cheryl continued to take the lead in the questioning.  
  
We are investigating certain threats made against Dr. Mark Sloan. I believe you know Dr. Sloan, is that correct?  
  
The question was purely pro forma, since it was obvious by Mills' changing demeanor that he did. He ignored Cheryl and focused instead on Steve, his words coolly vicious.  
  
You're Sloan's son, aren't you? Well, your father is an incompetent fool. I'm not suprised someone wants him dead.   
  
The atmosphere of the room changed abruptly, an almost palpable tension stretching between the two men. Standing beside Steve, Cheryl could sense every muscle taut in his body, but, somewhat to her surprise, he showed no overt reaction to these aspersions, merely looking down at the shorter man stonily. He had no intention of defending his father against insults that were meaningless coming from a man like this. However, the hostility this man obviously held against his father was grating on his already raw protective instincts.  
  
Sensing her partner's precarious control, Cheryl unobtrusively edged slightly in front of him, hoping to forestall any explosion.  
  
Sir, I don't recall mentioning that anyone wanted him dead, but an attempt has indeed been made on Dr. Sloan's life. Could you shed any light on this for us?  
  
This was verging on a accusation, and Mills knew better than to answer; he turned away from her dismissively. If you have any more questions, you can call my lawyer. I have nothing more to say.  
  
Cheryl thanked him insincerely for his help and started to leave the room, but as Steve turned to follow her, he was stopped by Mills, who was unable to resist one last taunt.   
  
My wife took a long while to die; I hope your father suffers as much as she did.  
  
The speed of Steve's reaction took the other two by surprise. In the last week, his failure to effectively combat the threat to his father had increasingly galled him, but now his pent-up frustrations finally had a tangible focus. He seized the man by his jacket and threw him up against the wall, holding him there with an arm across his throat as he ground out a question.  
  
Did you hire Tremelo? Did you? He punctuated the query with another slam of Mill's head against his fine wood paneling, ignoring Cheryl's rather ineffectual efforts to stop him.  
  
The slight head shake and accompanying gurgle, which was all Mills was capable of in this position, did nothing to deflect Steve's fury.  
  
If I find out you had anything to do with hiring Tremelo, I'll come back and I'll destroy you. He held him for minute, reinforcing his verbal message with an equally clear physical threat, before releasing him with a contemptuous flick of his hands, allowing him to regain his footing.  
  
Mills was almost choking with fear and anger, but automatically straightened his clothes in an attempt to restore his dignity before pointing a trembling hand at the door. Get the hell out of here. You haven't heard the last of me, Sloan, I swear it. I'll have your badge for this.  
  
Steve strode out of the room without a backwards glance. He started to cool down in the elevator, and by the time he was sitting in the car, he was almost regretting his outburst. He was also wishing he'd ripped the man's head off, but he realised that his actions had been ill-advised.  
  
He looked across at his tight-lipped and obviously fuming partner and grimaced. OK, I know, that was stupid. Let me have it.  
  
Cheryl obliged without a smile. Yes, it was stupid. How could you react in such a juvenile and unprofessional manner? You're going to be in real trouble if he reports you.  
  
I didn't pull my gun, he offered half-humourously in defense. Actually, that was only because the thought hadn't occurred to him at the time; his only desire had been to lay hands on the bastard threatening his father and choke the living daylights out of him.  
  
Cheryl ignored his rejoinder, and Steve didn't push the conversation. He shut his eyes, trying to analyse the recent interview more objectively. He couldn't decided if Mills was actually behind the hiring of Tremelo, or if he had merely seized the opportunity to mock the man he still blamed for his wife's death. Steve desperately wished, not for the first time, that he could talk to his father. He missed his steadying presence and insightful comments. Under normal circumstances, if he were stressed he could talk to Mark, who always proved to be an excellent sounding board in frustrating cases, and could defuse his son's occasional short temper just by listening and often by making him laugh. Even at times when Steve didn't feel like talking, Mark would somehow know the right time to break though his reserve with a gentle question and his expectant, bright-eyed expression.   
  
The car jerked to a halt, and Steve looked up in surprise to find they had already arrived at the station. Cheryl still looked upset and wasn't meeting his eyes, and he realised that he owed her an apology.  
  
I'm sorry, Cheryl. You're right, it was stupid. I just.....lost it. He offered her a repentant smile which, after a moment, she returned ruefully.  
  
You know, Steve, I wouldn't want to be in your shoes right now.  
  
She was right. As they entered the squad room, a bellow, which could have been heard across town, emanated from Newman's room.  
  
Lieutenant Sloan, my office, NOW!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6  
  
Although Steve was peripherally aware of the fascinated faces of his colleagues and the more concerned expression from Cheryl as he made his way to Newman's office, it scarcely impacted his consciousness. He was totally focused on the task ahead, knowing what was at stake in the coming confrontation. His brief outburst of violence had been remarkably cathartic and, for the first time in a while, he felt a steady sense of calm, even knowing that he was likely to be facing disciplinary action. If he was lucky, he might escape with a reprimand, but the tongue lashing he would have to endure would still be unpleasant.   
  
Newman was standing on the far side of his desk as Steve entered, and his chilly gaze raked him from head to foot. Steve wasn't expecting to be invited to sit and he remained standing, his gaze fastened on the wall, an inch over Newman's right ear as his Captain started to haul him over the coals.  
  
I just got a call from John Mills' office, Newman stated bluntly. He's complaining that you assaulted him. Is there any truth to that?  
  
Yes, sir. Steve's reply was simple, without any attempt at self-justification.  
  
He wasn't surprised when Newman exploded in fury. What the hell were you thinking? You're not a half-assed, wet-behind-the-ears rookie to pull a stunt like that.  
  
No, sir.  
  
Newman continued in that vein for some time, his language becoming more colorful and abusive, until Steve's monosyllabic replies and lack of reaction seemed to register, and finally the storm of his anger seemed to break up against the solid, unimpressionable figure in front of him.  
  
He regarded Steve in exasperation for a minute, then threw up his arms in resignation. Oh, sit down, Lieutenant and tell me what really happened.  
  
Steve accepted the invitation and gave an unemotional account, still without trying to excuse his own actions, though he made it clear that Cheryl had attempted to restrain him.  
  
Newman was silent for a few minutes, looking out the window as he pondered Steve's report.  
  
You really think it's Mills behind all this? he asked at last.  
  
Steve hadn't been expecting that response, and took a moment to organise his thoughts and impressions of Mills. He's dirty, I'll bet my life on that, and he certainly seems to hate my father enough.  
  
Newman considered that, then shook his head dismissively. Why would he risk everything for revenge? It seems pretty weak to me.  
  
I'd swear that's what it's about, Steve insisted. This whole thing reeks of revenge. Dad isn't due to give testimony in any case, and he's not involved in anything at work that would justify this.  
  
Well, now there's a solid lead, Detective Banks can take over this part of the investigation. I have to take you off this case.   
  
Steve's response was immediate, and delivered flatly with the utmost conviction.  
  
Newman thumped the desk with his fist, his voice low and furious. You're in enough trouble already. Don't make the situation worse with insubordination.  
  
Steve met his angry gaze without flinching, his own composure still intact. The situation was to him straightforward and self-evident. No, sir. Someone's still trying to kill my father. Officially or unofficially, I'm on this case.   
  
I should never have allowed you to take this case; you're too emotionally involved. And now you've assaulted a suspect, there's no way I can keep you on it. I'm sure Cheryl will keep you posted on all the developments, but you're to stay away from the investigation or I'll have your badge. Newman glared over the desk at Steve, trying to enforce his authority but, even as he said it, he knew his last statement had been a tactical error.  
  
For the first time, a crack showed in Steve's impassive facade. You're damn right I'm emotionally involved. There's no way in hell I'm going to sit back and let Tremelo have a free crack at my father. You want my badge, here, take it. It's not worth my father's life, not even close. He held his badge out to the Captain, who made no move to take it.  
  
Newman knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was no bluff. It wouldn't be the first time Steve had surrendered his badge in support of his father, to whom he was unswervingly loyal. His priorities were firmly established, and nothing and nobody could come between them. Newman had realised that their partnership had reached legendary status within his department when he had heard one veteran officer warning a rookie who had questioned Mark's presence at a crime scene in less than polite terms, Don't mess with the Lieutenant's old man, or he'll come down on you like a starving tiger.  
  
Steve was also the best detective he had, utterly reliable, uncorruptable and with a genuine caring touch for the victims of the crimes he investigated and their families. It didn't hurt that he also had the best closure rate of any cop in the department and a series of commendations to his name.  
  
Their silent battle of wills continued for a minute, with the out-held badge poised between them as the symbol of contention. However, Newman was astute enough to realise that this wasn't a fight he could win.  
  
Oh, put that back, he said irritably. He walked back to the window to give himself time to think of an effective compromise that would leave them both with their jobs intact.  
  
Hopefully Mills isn't going to press charges, and, with the provocation offered and your stellar record, I'm sure you will escape with only a reprimand. However, I'm suspending you for a week - with pay - while this incident is investigated. Obviously, you can spend that week how you like.... with the exception of assaulting prominent members of the community. I'll make sure your partner keeps you updated with any progress made. Do you understand what I'm saying?  
  
Steve recognized that Newman was giving him all the support he could without officially endorsing his continuing on the case, and he was grateful for the opportunity to pursue it with a bit more freedom.   
  
Thank you, Captain. I appreciate that, he acknowledged.  
  
Don't thank me, go somewhere safe and get some sleep. You look like hell, no wonder your judgment is impaired. Send in Detective Banks as you leave.  
  
As he got in his car, Steve headed instinctively for home, needing a safe refuge to think. He didn't even realise his choice of destination until he pulled into the driveway. He hesitated, but finally decided that Tremelo had shown no inclination to come after him and, in the mood he was in, he'd welcome the opportunity if he did.   
  
However, as he entered the house, it suddenly seemed less welcoming than usual, his movements seeming to echo in it's emptiness. He was struck by the realisation that, although he loved this house, it was his father's presence that made it a home.  
  
He tried to shake off his burgeoning sense of depression by going for a run along the beach, the exercise invigorating his body and clearing his mind. After a quick shower, he spent most of the evening alternating between the use of the computer and the telephone, trying to expose Mills' illicit activities.  
  
He fell asleep on the sofa, his gun under a cushion, just before dawn, and was woken a few hours later by the telephone ringing insistently. Rubbing his face, he moved over groggily to answer it, and was, at first, pleasantly surprised to hear the familiar voice on the other end.  
  
Hi, Steve, it's me. Did I wake you up?  
  
It's fine, Dad, I needed to wake up anyway. Suddenly, for no reason he could pin down, a dawning sense of unease prickled his skin, and his voice was sharp with worry as he asked, - Is something wrong? Are you alright?  
  
Mark's reply was initially reassuring, and he sounded cheerful. Actually, I thought _you_ had been trying to call _me_. I've had three calls in the last hour or so, but no one was on the other end. I thought you might have had trouble getting through.  
  
It took a moment for the words to penetrate Steve's sleep-fogged brain but as they did, the sliver of fear that had taken up residence in his gut turned into a full-blown spike slicing deep into his stomach. He sat bolt upright, trying to control a sense of panic as he realised what Tremelo was doing.   
  
Jesus! Get out of there, Dad. Tell Adams and Vorderman and get out of the house, NOW!


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7  
  
The drive up to the mountains took two hours, but seemed interminable to Steve. His fear alternatively ebbed, as he struggled to reign in his imagination, then surged out of control again, causing his perception of passing time to telescope wildly. He was driving with a furious intensity, throwing all his concentration into that task to distract himself from his grim thoughts. He had driven through the crowded L.A. streets with siren blaring and lights flashing, visual symbols of his inner turmoil. Now out in the country, he was taking corners with a fast, brutal efficiency, a legacy of his racing past, that would have left most passengers white-knuckled and gasping. As a police officer, he had learned to starve his imagination and not surrender to the wild images that could prey on a mind that had seen and experienced scenes of horrific violence; but his training was failing him now. He had read Tremelo's file, with its photographs of his previous victims, neat bullet holes drilled between their eyes. The man wasn't a sadist, and usually dispatched his prey cleanly and without fanfare, but the results were just as devastating. Despite his attempts to banish the images, Steve couldn't prevent his mind from superimposing his father's face on the crime pictures, his dead eyes open and staring, accusing his son of the ultimate failure.   
  
Part of the horror that engulfed him was induced by guilt. The thought preying on his mind was that maybe Newman had been right. He should never have been in charge of the case, he _was_ too emotionally involved. He had broken procedure in giving his father the cell phone, wanting a way to stay in contact. Now he believed that, in allowing himself that luxury, he had ultimately endangered Mark, as it seemed that Tremelo had traced his father's whereabouts through the cell phone. No one was supposed to have the number, yet someone had called it three times. Steve knew that in cases of 911 callers being unable to respond, cellular providers could derive location information by triangulating the location of the base station and antenna nearest the caller. He was certain that Tremelo had somehow tapped into this technology as a means to locate Mark.  
  
The only thing keeping his fear even remotely under control was the knowledge that this was an inexact science, and in a rural area such as Mark was in, it would probably only be accurate to within 6 square miles or so. However, that was far too close for comfort. The remaining distance could easily be breached with help from residents of the area. In fact, Steve had so far refrained from calling local law enforcement, thinking that if Tremelo had narrowed down Mark's location, he might very well count on movements of the Sheriff to lead him directly to his victim. However, Steve had called Cheryl to alert her to his suspicions, and she would be standing by to offer assistance if needed.  
  
Steve began to get the feeling that he had been one step behind Tremelo all the way, and that many of the decisions he had made had actually played into the assassin's hands. It was as if he were missing the subtitles to a film in Chinese, allowing him to follow the action, but miss the important dialogue. For Tremelo to have the number to the cell phone he gave Mark, he must have an inside source, either at the station or the hospital, possibly even the person who had hired him. Steve vowed to track this person down as soon as he got his father to safety.  
  
After his agitated warning to Mark, he had kept his father on the line just long enough to direct him to the first meeting place he could think of that was off the beaten path, then instructed him not to use the phone again unless an emergency materialised. Now, as he neared their rendezvous point, every muscle in his body grew taut, as if physically willing his father to be there could make it happen.  
  
He pulled off the road behind the abandoned one-room school house, and at once saw the car with his father and the two detectives inside. Relief hit him with the force of a tsunami, leaving him shaky but releasing him from the almost paralysing fear that had gripped him on the way up. He found he was now capable of analysing the situation more like a police officer, instead of reacting purely as a son.   
  
He jumped out of the car, sweeping the area with an automatic glance to assess any threat offered, then slid into the back seat beside his father, unable to stop a big smile from crossing his face. He grasped his father's arms, unconsciously needing the information from the most fundamental sense - touch - to reassure himself that Mark was indeed alive and unhurt in front of him.   
  
Are you okay? he asked, somewhat automatically. He could already tell that his father was not in any way physically harmed, but he could also see that the past few days had been very difficult for him; uncharacteristic lines of stress had replaced the more familiar laughter lines. He could imagine from personal experience the strain his father had been living under.   
  
However, the grin he received from his father was pure Mark Sloan, eyes twinkling and alert with intelligence and humour.  
  
I'm fine, I had a wonderful holiday up here; clean air, good company, what could be better!  
  
The two detectives in the front had turned to watch this exchange, and Steve surmised from the warmth in their eyes that his father's charm had cast its usual spell, even on these hard-bitten detectives. He was relieved to know that Mark had enjoyed the companionship of his guardians, but he also knew that his father would have kept his fears to himself. Sharing his deepest feelings, even with his closest friends, was not in his nature.  
  
You want to fill us in, Lieutenant? asked Detective Adams. We've got a bet going with your Dad about the reasons for our hasty departure, and I'm eager to see the colour of his money.  
  
You've been teaching my Dad to gamble? Steve asked in mock horror.  
  
Huh! No teaching was required, as my empty wallet will testify, Vorderman snorted.  
  
Steve explained his theory, its ramifications obvious to all present, and both detectives handed over five dollars to Mark with resignation.  
  
You're sure it was this guy, Tremelo? Adams asked with some incredulity.   
  
Steve nodded; although he couldn't quite recapture the certainty that had seized him earlier, it was too risky to assume otherwise.  
  
We need to move you to another safe house, Dad, but the question is - which route do we take? There's one road into this place, the road from L.A., and there's one road out heading north, at least until we hit the main roads again. We don't know if Tremelo is ahead of us, waiting, or if he hasn't made it this far yet.  
  
Mark thought about that, analysing the possibilities. What he really wanted was to go home, and he had every intention of discussing that with Steve as soon as they were alone. For now, to safeguard his son and the other detectives, he wanted to take every precaution to avoid Tremelo. The first phone call was two hours before I called you, and you made good time up here. Tremelo would have to be well organised to have got ahead of us already, so I suggest we work on the theory that he's still behind us, and we take the long route home.  
  
There was a general consensus on the wisdom of this, and they also agreed to go in convoy, with Mark and Steve in the first car. Steve ushered his father into the passenger seat of his car, and they started off. As Steve drove down the winding country lanes, the comfort of his father's familiar presence seeped into his bones, bringing the first real relaxation in almost two weeks.  
  
So did you really enjoy your time up here? he asked sceptically.  
  
It's been wonderful, Mark replied, a little too earnestly. I've caught up on my medical journal reading, some correspondence, I even managed to do some crosswords, and that's something I don't have time for very often.  
  
Really bored, huh? Steve concluded.  
  
Out of my skull, his father confirmed, with emphasis. The two exchanged quick grins before Steve turned his attention back to the road, the familiar banter completing the sensation of life easing back to normal like a spring with the tension now released. However, this enjoyment wasn't to last for long. Only a few miles down the road, they spotted a man dressed in hunting clothes, sitting and kicking his heels on a fallen tree. As he saw the car, he straightened up and spoke into what seemed to be a walkie-talkie.  
  
Mark's head whipped round to watch him, their eyes meeting as they passed. He didn't recognise him, but there was a vicious satisfaction in the man's expression that worried him.  
  
Mark alerted his son.  
  
I saw him, Dad. Steve's face was grim. Seems like Tremelo might have hired himself some new help. Damn it! I've got to get you to somewhere safe, but we're faced with the same problem as before. Do we go forward or back?  
  
Let's keep going. For all we know, he was radioing back to the town.  
  
Steve increased the speed of the car, renewed anxiety clawing at his guts. Every instinct told him trouble was approaching, and he handed his cellphone to Mark.  
  
Call Cheryl, tell her where we're headed and that we need backup as soon as possible, then call Adams and Vorderman and tell them to pick up the pace. Keep the connection open in case we need to talk in a hurry.  
  
They had only gone a few miles down the road, when a large SUV, parked in a siding, swung onto the road between the two cars with a spray of gravel and quickly picked up speed.  
  
Keep your head down, Dad, Steve urged, his foot pressing down hard on the accelerator. The car surged forward, and the race was on as the SUV responded. The cars rocketed along the narrow road for several minutes, neither gaining an advantage. Steve kept a watchful gaze in the rearview mirror for additional signs of aggression, and caught the occasional glimpse of Adams and Vorderman in the third car trailing the action. Mark still held the phone to his ear, but nothing of import was exchanged, so he didn't interrupt his son's concentration.   
  
Steve's focus shortly became a matter of life and death as the forest on their right petered out to be replaced by a rocky canyon with only a flimsy guard rail between the car and a vertical drop into oblivion. As a passenger, there was nothing Mark could do except watch and wait, and he sat bolt upright as the car swung perilously close to the edge, affording him an excellent view of the yawning chasm below. His trust in his son was absolute, but his stomach responded to the constant lurching and violent movement with unease.   
  
A corner taken at too high a velocity round these tight curves would prove fatal, and both cars were forced to slacken their pace, but here Steve's previous driving experience allowed him to navigate the hazardous road with greater dexterity, and by the time there was forest on both sides again, they had an appreciable lead, and rarely caught sight of the pursuing car.  
  
Listening on the cell phone, Mark informed Steve that the other two detectives had caught up with the SUV and were attempting to cut off it's pursuit.  
  
Tell them to be careful, Steve told his father, worry coloring his voice, but before Mark could relay the message, the sound of gunfire and indistinct shouting could be heard through the connection, then a brief but resounding crash as the phone went dead.  
  
Mark looked at his son, his face ashen; he'd come to know the two men well over the last few days. They might be hurt, we can't just leave them.  
  
Steve's jaw was clenched, but he didn't reduce their speed. Although he too desperately wanted to check on the detectives' condition and render any needed assistance, he was all too aware that Mark was the target in this pursuit, and he couldn't place him in greater jeopardy by turning back.  
  
It quickly became a moot point, as round the next bend they found a pickup truck blocking both lanes, and two armed men in front of it with weapons raised.  
  
Steve slammed on the brakes, but the car went into an alarming skid as a series of shots blew out one of the front tyres. He fought for control and succeeded in regaining enough to wrench the wheels round sufficiently to prevent the car from smashing headlong into a tree. He aimed for a small gap in the trees on the right, ensuring that it was his side of the car that would suffer any impact rather than his father's. The car was brought to an abrupt halt as it hit a large pine with a jolting force.  
  
The impact momentarily stunned Steve, leaving his left arm hanging limply by his side from a jarring knock on his elbow, but his first concern was for his father.   
  
He reached out urgently to Mark. Blood was oozing from a nasty looking bruise on the side of his forehead, and he appeared dazed. However, there was no time for tending to injuries; the sound of approaching voices forced Steve to hustle his father out of the car, following him out of the passenger side. He noticed that Mark was no longer holding the cell phone, but there was no time to search for it. He fired a couple of shots awkwardly with his right hand to discourage a closer approach. Their car wasn't going anywhere, and he had to find a more defensible location for his father until help arrived. He couldn't hold off rifles with one handgun for long.  
  
Dad, how bad...?  
  
I'm fine, Mark interrupted. It's just a little bruise, nothing serious.  
  
A quick examination revealed that both pupils were the same size and seemed to be reacting normally to the change of light. as the sun shone through the branches above casting shifting shadows. Although the head injury didn't seem incapacitating in any way, Steve hated to force his father into action right then, but it was unavoidable.  
  
We need to hurry, Dad. We can lose them in the forest. Can you run?  
  
At Mark's staunch affirmative, they started to move, Steve at his father's elbow, steadying him and guiding him deeper into the forest. A bullet snarled past their heads, chipping a piece of bark off a tree and sending them stumbled through the underbrush in a headlong rush, dodging round trees as branches and thorns tore at their clothes, fallen limbs and thick bushes impeding their progress. Sensing his father's growing distress, Steve slowed them down. Mark was in amazing shape for a man his age, but he wasn't young any more, and he couldn't maintain the punishing pace they were keeping.  
  
Following a diagonal line away from the road, they noticed that the trees were starting to thin out, and then, to their consternation, they found themselves facing a barren stretch of ground with little cover that stretched as far as they could see along the forest in both directions. A natural fire break had been extended to clear the way for pylons. It was about 200 yards before the trees started again on the other side. If they attempted a crossing, they would be sitting ducks for their assailants if the gunmen arrived at the edge of the clearing before they reached safety. However, the narrow strip of trees between it and the road would not afford them adequate protection if the gunmen started searching for them. Mark was bent over catching his breath, and Steve's hand rested on his back protectively as he considered his waning options. He contemplated finding a more secure hiding place for Mark, then crossing the barren land and trying to draw their fire from the other side. But he couldn't bring himself to take the risk of leaving his father unprotected.  
  
What's wrong with your arm? Mark asked suddenly, having recovered his breath and mental balance enough to also regain his customary powers of observation.  
  
I don't think it's broken, Dad, just bruised. Dad, we have to cross here and now, before they get closer. Do you think you can make it?  
  
Mark stared across the barren expanse ahead, then turned to face Steve, meeting his gaze steadily. Aware of the terrible danger they were facing, he allowed himself the luxury of a long look, conveying without words his love for his son. Then, distant shouting emphasised the need for haste, and he nodded.  
  
Let's go.  
  
They ran together, Steve slightly behind his father, automatically shielding him and ready to offer support. Mark moved with grim determination but, already tired from his previous exertion and the knock to his head, his progress slowed as the distance took its toll. They were only 20 yards from the enticing safety of the trees when a single shot rang out. Steve felt the numbing shock of the bullet smashing into his back, knocking him to the ground, his vision greying as he heard his father calling his name in anguish.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8  
  
Mark dropped to his knees beside the prone body of his son, oblivious to his personal safety. His breath was harsh against the lining of his throat, and he could hear nothing past the pounding of the blood in his ears, but his mind kept replaying the litany, - It was supposed to be me, it was supposed to be me - as he stared in horror at the spreading stain on Steve's shirt. His son had been shot before, but he had never been in a position to witness it. For what seemed like an eternity but was only a few seconds, he froze, unable to comprehend what had happened; then fear exploded within him sending a shrapnel of agony to every part of his body and galvanising him to action.  
  
Oh, God! he whispered, his hands fumbling to assess the extent of his son's injury. The location alone told him of its severity; there was no way the bullet could have missed his lung. He stripped off his jacket and used it to staunch the flow of blood. He had to get Steve to a hospital and fast. Mark looked around desperately for inspiration, and was brought back to the brutal reality of his position as he saw a large man armed with a rifle approaching them. Frantically, he looked for Steve's gun, his normal pacifistic nature and the Hippocratic Oath swept away in an onslaught of fury as his son's blood stained his hands and his would-be killer neared. In the time available, he was unable to find the weapon; it seemed to be hidden underneath Steve's body as he lay face down on the ground, his injured left arm outflung.  
  
Mark gave up the search, and turned to face the gunman, interposing his body between him and his son. Ed Warren was a large man, physically imposing, but he stopped, momentarily uncertain of his next move, as he faced the elderly doctor who glared at him unafraid despite the menace of the gun. The tableau remained unchanged for a minute, neither man moving, then the gunman, eying Mark cautiously, edged to the right to see his victim. Mark shifted protectively to block his view.  
  
Leave him alone. The words rasped warningly from his throat. He's no threat to you, don't touch him. It's me you want. Mark fully expected to die at this time; his strongest regret was that his son would almost certainly die too without anyone to aid him. He was mystified by the reply from Warren which seemed to make no sense in light of his previous assumptions.  
  
You're wrong, old man. I don't want you at all; but your son is about to make me a very rich man. Warren again moved for a clear shot at Steve, and was again frustrated by Mark shielding him.  
  
Don't hurt him, Mark repeated. His rage at this man so casually trying to kill his son was now tempered by a return to his normal clear thinking and tactical ability. He would defend Steve by any means open to him, and he felt no fear for himself as he looked for an exploitable weakness in the other man.   
  
Losing patience, and confident in his physical superiority, Warren attempted to sweep Mark aside with a contemptuous shove. Get out of my way, old man.   
  
He was caught off balance when Mark launched himself bodily at him with a snarl. While he no longer had the strength of his youth, he still had considerable heft, and, with the impetus of fear for his son, he was willing to inflict whatever damage he could on the unprepared gunman.  
  
He landed several satisfactory blows but, knowing his limitations, his sole intent was to take possession of the gun, and he clung to it grimly, ignoring the retaliatory knocks that Warren doled out as he recovered from his shock at being attacked by the elderly man whom he had dismissed as harmless. Once the advantage of surprise was lost, the fight was too uneven to last for long, despite Mark's determination. As Warren wrenched the rifle round, the butt hit Mark on the head, knocking him to the side and leaving him momentarily stunned. He sensed rather than saw Warren steady himself to turn to fire on Steve. With a desperate cry, half blinded by the blood trickling into his eyes from the reopened wound on his forehead, he threw himself in the direction of the gunman, trying to physically block the bullet. He realised his attempt was ineffective as the sound of the shot rang in his ears.  
  
The agony of failure welled up inside him and he frantically scrubbed at the blood in his eyes. Acting purely on an instinctive need to get to his son, he got to his feet and stumbled in Steve's direction.  
  
  
  
Mark's normally astute mind seemed dulled by the repeated blows and emotional shocks of the last few minutes, and he gazed in incomprehension at the blurred vision of Steve, ashen-faced but struggling to rise with his gun in his hand. Then, overwhelming relief filled him as the realisation hit that it was Steve who had fired the shot and his attacker who lay senseless on the ground. He moved quickly to his son's side to help him stand without aggravating his injuries.   
  
Got...to...get to cover. Steve's voice was thick and his face etched with pain.   
  
This time, father supported son with both an arm around his waist and encouraging words as they staggered the remaining 20 yards into the shelter of the trees, then deeper into the woods to provide concealment if people searched for them from the open ground. Once satisfied they were temporarily safe, Mark halted their flight, and persuaded Steve to sit down and rest.  
  
We have to keep going, Steve protested weakly.  
  
Mark shook his head. I have to see to your injuries first, if for no other reason than you're leaving a trail a blind man could follow. I have to stop the bleeding.  
  
Steve submitted to the examination in silence. Knowing how difficult this was for his father, he refused to make it harder by allowing the pain he caused to show, but his face was two shades paler by the time Mark had finished. Steve covertly watched his father's face as he worked; although Mark was adept at concealing his emotions from his patients, Steve had had a lot of practice at picking up on his subtle cues, and this time he could sense that Mark was worried. The bullet had broken a rib before entering the lung and exiting the other side. As far as Mark could tell, no major blood vessels or other organs had been damaged. However, without medical intervention, the prognosis was still grim. The blood loss was severe enough, but the real danger was that the build-up of pressure in the chest cavity would not only collapse the lung, but also cut off the blood supply to the heart.  
  
Steve didn't really need any confirmation from his father to realise how seriously he was hurt. It was getting harder and harder to breathe, and grinding pain accompanied every inhalation. However, he couldn't allow himself to rest until he knew Mark was safe. He had to convince his father to continue on without him. He was under no illusion that this would be an easy task, but he had to try.  
  
Steve's voice was weak but urgent.  
  
Mark anticipated what was coming, and didn't look up from the makeshift bandage he was trying to fasten. Don't try to talk, son. Just keep still.  
  
You've got to keep going. I'll find a place to hide. You need to go and get help for me, Steve persisted, playing the only card in his hand, weak as it was.  
  
Not surprisingly, it was quickly trumped. If I leave you, you're going to die, either from blood loss or when the men find you here. Mark's tone was flat and uncompromising.  
  
Frustration was clear in Steve's voice. He didn't finish his sentence, but what was left unsaid was clear to them both - he was going to die anyway.  
  
Mark said firmly; a complete rejection of both the possibility of his son dying and the possibility of him leaving.  
  
Steve grasped his wrist, forcing his father to look at him. was all he said, but, in that one intensely desperate word, he conveyed all his love for his father and the depth of his need to keep him safe.  
  
Caught by the raw honesty and anguish in those blue eyes so like his own, Mark could only stare helplessly. He understood how important this was to Steve, but, for once, found himself utterly unable to comply with his wishes. He couldn't find the words to explain that, if his son died, life for him was essentially over; whether it was here at the receiving end of a bullet or later in his bed was irrelevant. Life without his son was too agonising to contemplate.  
  
In a rare gesture of affection, he reached out and gently pushed Steve's sweat-dampened hair back on his forehead, trying to think of a way to soften the rejection.  
  
I'm sorry, he whispered finally, then, as he felt his son start to withdraw, he continued, but I can't leave you anymore than you could leave me if the situation were reversed.  
  
Steve closed his eyes, then, with a superhuman effort, forced himself to his feet, swaying slightly, and began to move stubbornly on through the trees. Mark was instantly at his side, dismayed, but unable to decide whether it was more dangerous for Steve to keep going or to stay where he was. The disclosure that Steve was actually the target of the contract had left him off-balance, although he didn't have the luxury of pursuing that train of thought right now. He hovered anxiously at his son's elbow, trying to prevent him from exacerbating his injuries as he lurched through the trees.  
  
Steve continued walking, his steps more and more unsteady, until finally he collapsed, shaken by a paroxysm of coughing, a bloody froth on his lips.  
  
His mind in turmoil, Mark dropped to the ground, his back against a rock and gently helped Steve into a sitting position leaning against him, hoping the elevated position would ease his breathing. There was nothing he could do for the internal bleeding. If he could just get Steve to a hospital, he could still save his life, but, out here in the wilderness, despite all his skills, there was nothing he could do. It was the worst nightmare he could possibly envisage, and his rib cage seemed too small to contain the anguish in his heart. His son was bleeding to death in his arms, and he couldn't save him. He had no instruments, not even a pen to perform even the most basic surgery.   
  
As a doctor with decades of experience, Mark knew that Death was no respecter of persons. He had watched too many people, old and young, rich and poor, strong and weak, lose their battle to live. But this was one time he simply couldn't admit defeat. He frantically ran through all his options in his head, trying to create possibilities out of thin air. With the best will in the world, he couldn't carry his son to safety. Even if he were physically capable of such a feat, it would aggravate Steve's internal injuries.  
  
The only thing he could do was to hope for Cheryl to arrive with the promised backup, and to ensure that Steve was alive when she came. It was critical to minimise the blood loss, but most of all he had to encourage his son's natural tenacity. His will to live was immensely strong and their best ally in this crisis.  
  
Just hold on, help's on the way. You've just got to hold on, he whispered once more. At some instinctual level, deeper than that of medical rationality, he found himself believing that the bond between him and his son was so strong that he could use it to tether Steve to this life as if it were a physical rope with himself hanging onto his end with all his might. With voice and touch, he softly coaxed Steve to keep fighting, although every tortured breath his son took sliced deeply into his heart.  
  
Steve hadn't said anything since he collapsed. He had put every remaining ounce of energy into that last desperate attempt at seeking refuge, and now rested against his father only semi-conscious, listening to him talk, more aware of his father's voice than of his words. Occasionally, he was shaken by painful bouts of coughing, his body tensing with the effort of controlling the stabbing spasms.   
  
Mark supported him through these convulsions though they tore at his self-control. He didn't know how long he talked, but his voice became hoarse with the effort and with the unshed tears that burned his throat. Interlaced with the horror of the moment were the poignant memories he conjured to defend himself against the reality of his son dying in his arms. He recalled the time when Steve was a much-adored baby lying cradled in his arms and wished he could protect him as easily now from the horrors that lurked in the shadows.   
  
It used to be easier to chase away the monsters from under your bed when you were younger, he confided. I remember the Christmas when you were four; your uncle gave you a book about dinosaurs, and you had terrible nightmares about a T-rex coming to eat you.  
  
He stopped talking as Steve finally stirred. With the last of his energy he whispered, - As his father leant down, he managed the word, - before finally losing the struggle with unconsciousness. Mark felt his body relaxing, and tendrils of anguish like living flame licked at every nerve end at the realisation that his son was slipping away. Unless he could relieve the pressure in Steve's chest soon, it would be too late.  
  
Looking around frantically for any sharp object, it occurred to him that although he had checked all _his_ pockets, he had failed to search Steve's. He hurriedly remedied his oversight, fingers trembling in hope as he prayed he would find something of use. Steve's precipitate departure from the house that morning was reflected in the paucity of objects on his person, but, in a back pocket, Mark found a well-worn Swiss pocket knife that he had given his son for his 21st birthday. He looked at it for a moment, hardly daring to believe what he held. Without a chest tube, it promised a temporary measure of relief at best, but it would gain some time, and, for now, that was enough.  
  
Grimly, he started preparations, but his concentration was suddenly broken by the sound of a gunshot nearby. He had actually forgotten the gunmen hunting them in the trauma of Steve's worsening condition. If they were this close, it would be easy for them to follow the trail of blood and close in to finish the job. The difficulties involved in keeping his son alive had just multiplied.  
  
A wave of fury seized him, and he grabbed Steve's gun, determined to defend him to the end, but, as he stared down at his son's pale, still face, the germ of an idea started to sprout, and his inventive mind conceived a desperate plan. He relinquished his hold on the gun, and instead took up the knife again.  
  
  



	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9  
  
Johnny Tremelo surveyed the barren landscape before him, suppressing his irritation at the incompetence of his hastily assembled helpers. He had neatly set the trap and primed the bait but, despite that, his prey was escaping. Contemplating his next move, he took an unhurried sip from his water supply. He was wearing a Camelbak, a water bottle which strapped to his back with a tube over his shoulder for easy refreshment. Such an arrangement had the advantage of leaving his hands free for the automatic weapon holstered on his belt or the rifle he was currently holding. This foresight was typical of Tremelo. A meticulously careful man, his ability to anticipate possible obstacles and maneuver past his target's defenses had led to his success in a field where few survived for long. A good hitman certainly did not prosper by underestimating his opponent.  
  
It was obvious from the body lying near the other side of the open expanse,  
that at least one of his hired men did not share his survival acumen. During the past few weeks, Tremelo had developed a healthy respect for his opponents' capabilities, and knew that they were quite capable of defending themselves when necessary. He realised how exposed anyone crossing the cleared area would be, and wondered if the Sloans were waiting to pick off more of their assailants as they attempted to reach the far trees. He doubted this, partly because there had been no more shots, but also because it didn't fit with his reading of Sloan's character. Unless cornered, he believed the cop's instincts would not be to stand and fight while accompanied by his father, but to lose himself in the wilderness beyond. Carefully inspecting the fringe of trees through his binoculars, Tremelo could see no movement, so he stepped into the open, all senses on alert, and ready to retreat quickly if necessary. When his actions met with no response, he started to traverse the clearing with extreme caution.  
  
The hitman noted with indifference that Warren wasn't dead as he had originally assumed. When he reached him he solicitously helped him into a sitting position, and offered him a sip of water as the injured man struggled to choke out his claim.  
  
The reward is mine. I got the bastard, hurt him real bad. He's not going to get far. Tremelo refrained from pointing out that the reverse was also true. He merely nodded noncommittedly, and asked where they had gone. As Warren turned slightly to point out the trail, Tremelo unemotionally shot him in the back of the head, killing him instantly, another loose end disposed of.  
  
Tremelo had resigned himself to a delay in terminating his target, confident he could satisfy the conditions of his contract at a later time. His prey seemed temporarily beyond his reach, and he expected police reinforcements to arrive any minute. However, Warren's information forced him to reconsider his options. If Sloan were indeed injured, then his ability to travel would be severely limited, and this would be the best time to finish the job. A few yards away he squatted down next to the blood-soaked earth, which bore mute witness to his ex-employee's story. Intent again on the hunt, Tremelo moved silently on, entering the trees where traces of blood indicated the injured man had fled.   
  
It was at that moment that the silence was rent by a terrible, heart-rending cry that, despite Tremelo's years of meting out and witnessing death, momentarily froze him in his tracks and caused the hair on the back of his neck to rise.   
  
  
  
It was an unearthly, desolate sound that carried anguished denial to the heavens. It spoke of a tormented soul and unendurable suffering, but Tremelo was not one to accept things at face value. Wary of anything that could conceal a possible trap, he edged onward, following the plaintive voice. Although the volume of the sound had slowly decreased, the anguish it contained had not, and he wasn't surprised by the sight that met his eyes as he entered a small clearing. The elderly doctor cradled a bloody, limp body in his arms, rocking slightly back and forth as he continued his lament. He was focused exclusively on his son, and seemed oblivious not only to Tremelo's presence, but to the whole world. A gun lay neglected at his feet, testimony to his lack of concern with external threats.  
  
Tremelo's father had walked out on his family when his son was 3, and he had never known a loving parental bond, yet he regarded this scene with less than his customary detachment. An excellent sharpshooter, he dealt Death from afar, barely acquainted with its concomitant grief. Now he was unaccountably drawn to the depth of feeling displayed by the normally stoic man.  
  
Even if he was not impervious to the suffering in front of him, his sense of self-preservation remained as strong as ever, and he kicked the gun further away from the doctor as a precaution. It was this motion that finally attracted the man's attention, and dazed blue eyes met his.  
  
He's dead. It was more a question than a statement, delivered with the innocent incomprehension of a child, and Tremelo automatically nodded in response, unable to deny the truth. The clearing was a slaughterhouse, copious quantities of blood liberally soaking both men. No one could survive such blood loss, and the brief glimpses he caught of the deathly-white face of his target attested to the fatal nature of his injuries.  
  
With this objective confirmation, hopeless grief dawned in the doctor's eyes, and he bowed his white head over his son's face. Realising that his mission had been accomplished with no effort on his part, Tremelo decided to leave the old man to his mourning, and he started to back away. His departure was aborted when Mark spoke.  
  
You're Tremelo.   
  
He stared at the elderly man, neither confirming or denying the statement. He wasn't surprised by the identification, but even he was taken aback by the man's next request.  
  
Kill me too. The blue eyes, until then misted with grief, cleared with a sudden intensity.  
  
Tremelo shook his head in refusal, surprised into a response. The contract specifies that you stay alive.  
  
A crack of anger appeared in the hopeless resignation, gaining momentum as he fired off the questions. Why him, why not me? Why?  
  
His intensity demanded an answer, and for a moment Tremelo was nearly persuaded to gratify his curiosity. Only an ingrained sense of professionalism prevented him from betraying his employer's name.  
  
Mark persisted. Then why now, here? You've had every opportunity this last week. Why this elaborate game?   
  
This time a curious feeling of obligation broke through Tremelo's customary reticence, and he answered honestly. It had to be like this. The contract specified that he had to die in front of you. I was paid twice my normal fee - a million dollars.  
  
Mark stared at him in horror, the chilling cruelty of the intent staggering him.  
  
he demanded hoarsely. What kind of sick monster would plan.... He broke off at Tremelo's head shake, and changed tactics.  
  
I'll hire you. Determination and shaking fury joined the grief on his countenance. I'll pay you double what he's paid. Two million dollars. I've got the money, my house, anything you want. I want him dead. Just kill the bastard.   
  
For a moment, Tremelo was tempted, more by the passion in the plea than by the monetary gain, but ultimately he rejected the idea.  
  
You know, Dr. Sloan. I believe I've just retired. With my ....earnings, I intend to move abroad and start a legitimate business.  
  
Deprived of the prospect of revenge, the brief spark of animation faded from the old man's eyes, and the devastation of loss returned. He seemed to withdraw back inside himself.  
  
So much blood, he muttered brokenly. His hand fluttered helplessly above his son's inert face. I have to.....please help me..I have to...I need to clean up the blood...so much blood.   
  
Tremelo unstrapped his water bottle, laying it beside the doctor. For a moment he felt an absurd impulse to apologise, but contented himself with, - Goodbye, Dr. Sloan. I won't bother you again. He left without looking back, his normal satisfaction at a completed job in abeyance.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10  
  
Wary eyes watched Tremelo depart, their owner fervently hoping that this was their last encounter. Mark's whole body was shaking from the emotional strain of his performance during the last few minutes. To convince the hitman that Steve was dead, he had had to almost accept it himself. Only his left hand, surreptitiously monitoring the terrifyingly weak but still beating pulse in his son's wrist, maintained a link with reality which lent him the strength to perpetuate the crucial deception.   
  
Having given Tremelo as much time as he dared to disappear in the woods, Mark lowered his son gently to the ground. Steve still clung tenaciously to life, but his state of deep unconsciousness indicated that this wouldn't be the case for long unless Mark operated now. The irony was that the man designated to take his son's life had just provided the means to save it. Mark had furtively coveted the water bottle from the moment he'd seen it on Tremelo's back and recognised its life-saving potential. He had been determined to wrest it from the hitman in one way or another, but he hadn't anticipated the curious sympathy that had motivated the hitman to hand it over. Mark didn't have time to ponder the vagaries of the universe. The water in the bottle would be perfect for restoring negative pressure in the lung, but first he had to insert the tube. This was not a sanitary operating theatre with a sterilised scalpel. The rather dull knife would make for a procedure bordering on butchery, and Mark was supremely glad that Steve would be insensible during the proceedings. He gripped the knife tightly, struggling for a measure of professional detachment that failed to materialise. Although he attempted to concentrate on the familiarity of the operation to guide his hands, he couldn't banish the awareness of whom he was operating on.  
  
Still seeking emotional balance, he took a couple of deep breaths and glanced up at the sunlight fading through the colourful foliage of the trees. It was amazingly peaceful, but suddenly the silence of the forest descended in a vertiginous rush, the scene swam dizzily before his eyes, and he had to fight a surge of nausea. His own physical condition had deteriorated considerably, and he only had himself to blame. He fought to maintain consciousness. There was no time for delay; his son needed him now. He wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers, but only succeeded in smearing them with blood. With all his formidable will, he cleared his mind of distractions and narrowed his focus to the inert chest in front of him. As he penetrated the chest wall, his efforts were rewarded by the rush of escaping air. Insertion of the tube was made more difficult by the persistent trembling in his hands, but finally he succeeded. The water in the bottle would act as a one-way valve preventing the air from being sucked back into the chest and allowing the lung to reinflate. Almost immediately it was easy to see the improvement in Steve's breathing, and his colour improved slightly. Mark could only pray that it would be sufficient to keep him alive until help arrived; he would worry about infection from the improvised instruments and the likelihood of pneumonia later.  
  
Mark sat back on his heels, exhaustion seeping into his awareness as he completed the makeshift operation. He was shivering from cold and emotional reaction, and realised belatedly how cold Steve must be. He sat down beside him to share what body heat he could, forced once again to sit and wait. His eyes didn't move from the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his son's chest, measuring out his life in shallow increments of exhalations, and his fingers again sought out the rapid pulse in the wrist, comforting at least in its regularity. He resumed reminiscing in a soft voice, no longer believing that Steve could hear him, but needing to do something constructive, because sitting without taking any action was intolerable.  
  
It could have been hours later, but was probably only minutes, when he heard shouting in the distance. Trusting it was the police and not the hitman returning, Mark picked up the gun and, holding it somewhat distractedly, fired off three shots as the universal signal for help. Hope choked him as, perversely, fear increased with the promise of help so near.  
  
Footsteps approached fast, and it was Cheryl who burst into the clearing first. She stopped, aghast at the gory scene in front of her. Mark didn't give her a chance to contemplate its implications, but started to bark out orders in a voice harsh with overuse and stress.  
  
Steve doesn't have a lot of time. Call for a medical chopper now. The open area back there will be an adequate landing site.  
  
Cheryl obeyed, and soon the chopper could be heard in the distance, and a stretcher arrived to carry Steve to meet it. Mark supervised his transportation and walked beside the stretcher, steadying the water bottle, being careful not to dislodge the tube.  
  
Cheryl observed Mark's extreme pallor and slightly unsteady gait. A sudden thought struck her, and she grasped his arm supportively.  
  
Are you hurt? she asked anxiously, the first thought automatically entering her head being, _Steve will kill me if anything happens to him_.  
  
I wasn't shot, he answered rather evasively. It was Steve they were after, not me.  
  
Further explanation was interrupted by the arrival of the helicopter. Mark accompanied Steve back, but the actual flight was forever a void in his memory. He concentrated his waning resources on his son, making sure that an IV was installed to replenish his fluid levels and mitigate the shock of blood loss, but all his movements were mechanical. His thoughts revolved relentlessly as he watched the still body of his son, blood and bruises standing out starkly against the shocking pallor of his face. Still' was not a word he usually associated with his son. Steve was normally so vibrantly alive, his steady, strong presence effortlessly commanding attention in any environment.  
  
As they arrived at the hospital, Jesse and Amanda were waiting. Steve was removed from the chopper and rushed down into the operating room while Amanda helped Mark towards the stairs. She eyed his blood-encrusted clothes with concern, but, when he denied that he was hurt, she concluded that all the blood was Steve's.  
  
Mark's sight narrowed down to the vision of his son disappearing into the elevator, and as he vanished from view, the tunnel collapsed. As the responsibility for his son passed into other hands, the determination that had been all that was keeping him on his feet melted with the speed of a snowball in hell, his knees buckled and the floor rose up to greet him.   
  
Amanda was horrified when he collapsed, and guilt-stricken. She had observed the signs of shock he had displayed on arrival, but had attributed them to the trauma of recent events. She knew how devastating it was for him when Steve's life was hanging in the balance. Now she realised that the shock could be as much due to blood loss and injury as it was psychological, and that, despite his assurances, she was negligent to have assumed otherwise. With assistance, she hurried Mark to the ER where he was carefully examined. To her relief, there were no life-threatening injuries, just multiple contusions, the most severe of which was the head injury. However,  
she was extremely puzzled when the blood loss was identified as originating from two deep nicks in the veins of Mark's left arm.  
  
The attending looked at Amanda doubtfully. Should I call in a psych consult?   
  
What are you talking about? You think that's self-inflicted? Amanda asked incredulously.  
  
Don't you? was the immediate retort.   
  
Amanda said with complete conviction. Mark Sloan would never attempt suicide.  
  
Are you sure? If he thought his son was dying...  
  
Amanda knew that Mark would be destroyed if Steve died. She could imagine him slowly fading away, closing himself off from the world, but never deliberately taking his own life. Besides, Steve wasn't dead, and Amanda knew with absolute certainty that Mark would never give up on his son.  
  
There's a logical explanation, she argued stubbornly. If he really wanted to kill himself, he would do a far more efficient job. Wait till he wakes up and give him a chance to clear this up. I'll accept full responsibility and stay in his room.  
  
With the IV replacing his lost fluids, Mark's vitals soon rebounded, and he recovered consciousness a few hours later. He lay still for a minute, his whole body aching, but unable to account for such unaccustomed soreness. As memory surged back, he struggled to rise, and Amanda moved to his side from the chair she was occupying.   
  
he questioned desperately.  
  
He's in ICU. Amanda gently reassured him. He came through surgery well, and, although he's not out of the woods yet, things are looking good. Jesse's with him and...where do you think you're going?  
  
Mark was swinging his legs round in an attempt to get out of bed. I need to see him, Amanda.  
  
You can't help him if you collapse again. Amanda cautioned.  
  
The doctor in him acknowledged the sense in this but was overridden by the anxious father. He needed to see his son to banish the gory images and painful interaction they had last shared. He had to assess his condition for himself.  
  
Amanda, I need to be there when he wakes up. If I'm not, he'll assume the worst, and you know what he's like.  
  
Yes, just as bad as you, she said with asperity. Honestly, Mark, with the drugs he's on there's no chance he'll wake up before morning, so you can get a good night's sleep in a nice comfortable bed and see him then.  
  
Mark hesitated, running out of arguments. I'm willing to compromise, he offered. Just let me see him tonight, then you can bring me back and I'll sleep here. Sensing her weakening, he pressed on. I won't be able to rest properly until I see him.  
  
Unable to resist the plea and the vulnerability in those gentle eyes, Amanda capitulated.  
  
I'll take you there. Now it was her turn to hesitate. Mark, before I do that, I have to know what happened to you. How did you .... get hurt?  
  
Understanding dawned in Mark's eyes and a hint of mischief. I needed the blood. He explained the crisis he had faced and his unique solution. For me to convince Tremelo that Steve was dead, it had to be immediately convincing, because if it even occurred to him to check, well... Mark broke off, unable to contemplate, far less articulate, the agony of helplessly witnessing the cold-blooded murder of his son. Steve had already contributed more than his share, he continued dryly. I merely added a soupcon for colour, so to speak. He shrugged. It worked, so I suppose I was convincing.  
  
Amanda smiled, I think it was very creative and, as you say, it worked. Come on, I'll take you to see Steve. She wheeled him in a chair to Steve's room. He subconsciously noted the presence of an armed guard at his door and at Steve's, but was too focused on his son to draw inferences at the time.  
  
He greeted Jesse with a distracted smile, drinking in the sight of his son lying peacefully in the bed, no longer drenched in blood and wracked with pain. However, resting his hand on his forehead, he could feel the fever that raged within.   
  
You saved his life, Mark, Jesse assured him quietly, observing the worry in his friend's eyes. He would never have made it to the hospital without your intervention. Now, his vital signs are remarkably strong, considering all that's happened. An infection was inevitable, given the circumstances, but we should know soon if he's going to respond to the antibiotics.  
  
He's going to be fine, Mark asserted with all the confidence he could muster, partly because the alternative was unthinkable and partly because he couldn't believe that Steve could have survived the primitive conditions of his earlier ministrations to die now, surrounded by the latest life-saving technology. He fought back the insidious doubts that suggested otherwise, knowing that pessimism would merely sap his strength.  
  
He turned to Amanda. I'm sorry, honey, I can't leave him, not until he's out of danger. He couldn't explain his superstitious notion that Steve wouldn't die if he was there. It made no medical sense, but it was a faith he subconsciously clung to.  
  
Amanda nodded reluctantly, realising the futility of further protest, but unwilling to support any further stresses on his system.  
  
I'll get you something to eat.  
  
Mark made himself as comfortable as possible while Amanda hurried off. Out of the corner of his eye, Mark saw the guard outside, before the door shut behind her. Startled, he turned to Jesse.  
  
Didn't they catch Tremelo?  
  
Jesse shook his head, loathe to pass on the bad news. There was no sign of him, although they threw up quite a dragnet in the mountains.  
  
Mark digested the implications of that information. Do the police have any idea yet who's behind it all?  
  
Not as far as I know, was Jesse's quiet reply.  
  
Mark stared grimly at his son's vulnerable form lying so still on the bed. Then it's not over yet.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11  
  
72 hours later, Mark was sitting in the same chair, waiting for Steve to fully recover consciousness. Amanda had persuaded him to go back to his room for a nap once Steve's condition had been upgraded from critical to serious, but he had returned as soon as he could. Steve's pneumonia was starting to respond to antibiotics, and Jesse was pleased with his progress. Mark was deeply thankful for the strength of his son's constitution which had again triumphed against overwhelming odds.   
  
Relieved of his most pressing concerns, Mark now relentlessly analysed the conundrum of the identity of his nemesis, worrying tenaciously at the problem like a terrier at a bone. He had been shaken to the core by Tremelo's revelation of his real goal, both by the vindictiveness behind it and the change in the perceived role he was supposed to play in the scenario. In thinking back to the information Steve had received from Fast Eddie, Mark remembered that he'd said that, _someone had wanted to hurt Mark and had_ _hired a hitman_. The automatic assumption had been that Mark himself was the target. The sheer malevolence and premeditation behind the truth went beyond simple anger and a desire for revenge. It emanated from a mind so warped with hatred that Mark couldn't fathom the depths of such enmity. Simple murder he could understand, its motives of passion and greed played out all too many times, but the deliberate infliction of maximum suffering was beyond his comprehension. He swore with a cold, hard resolve to find the person responsible for hurting his son.   
  
Surprisingly enough, he bore no malice towards Tremelo, merely hoping he wouldn't return when he discovered he'd been duped. Mark's hostility was directed squarely at the unknown figure who had engineered this brutal plan. He believed this person must know him well to strike so unerringly at his Achilles heel. There was a personal element to this revenge that his instincts told him spoke of familiarity. Although Mark knew that he wasn't responsible for his son's injuries, he couldn't quell the stirrings of guilt over the fact that Steve had been hurt because of him. Even stronger though was his anger that his son should be used as a pawn in a strike against him. Steve faced enough danger every day at work without his father contributing, however inadvertently, to his jeopardy.  
  
Mark believed that the phone calls he'd received were the key to finding the culprit. Steve had assured him that no one should have had access to his number. While in the safe house, he had placed calls to four doctors at Community General from the cell phone, and the most likely scenario was that one of these men had caller ID which had provided them with his number. It was easy to overlook the availability of technology that one didn't possess oneself. One of the doctors was Jesse, whom he could easily dismiss as a suspect, but he could think of no reason why any of the others would want to hurt him. He had known Bill Stedman for many years and, although he was occasionally cantankerous, there was no animosity between them. Mannings and Narimba were excellent doctors who stood to gain nothing by his removal as far as he was aware. Although it was possible that any of them could have passed the number on unwittingly, since he had never specified that it should remain secret, and he couldn't dismiss the possibility that the leak had originated at the police station since the phone itself belonged to the department, the possibilities were narrowing, and he had passed on the information to Cheryl who was examining phone records.  
  
Mark's mental peregrinations halted as he saw slight movements from his son's bed. He was by his side in an instant and watched his eyes flutter open. A smile curved Steve's lips at the sight of his father and, for a moment, they regarded each other in silence. Steve was the first to speak, but the first words out of his mouth surprised him with their weakness.  
  
You look like hell, he observed affectionately, noting the vivid green bruise on his father's forehead and the strain around his eyes.  
  
Mark felt the residual tension ease from his body. You haven't looked in a mirror lately, he retorted in the same tone of voice, then more seriously, How do you feel?  
  
Steve took a quick internal inventory. Considering he had accepted that he was going to die, he thought he was feeling rather well. Apart from the elephant sitting on my chest, I feel great.  
  
Mark smiled sympathetically, understanding how difficult it was to breathe with pneumonia. Let me call Jesse, and we'll give you some medication that will change that to a ... smallish hippopotamus. He reached out for the call button but Steve stopped him.  
  
Don't, wait.  
  
Mark looked at him in concern, worried that something was wrong, but Steve reassured him.  
  
I just want a little bit longer before people come in here, poking and prodding and generally using me as a pin cushion.  
  
Mark reflected that his son had ample reason to know how assiduous doctors could be in their ministrations. However, he intuited that Steve wanted some quiet time with just the two of them before the well-meaning hordes descended. He was experiencing a feeling of euphoria that Steve had recovered enough to converse, and he too was determined to enjoy this brief oasis of calm. He sat back down, pulled his chair up to the bedside and relaxed into it.   
  
Steve looked at him expectantly, and he smiled innocently back, knowing what his son wanted to hear.   
  
he demanded eventually. What happened? Did they catch Tremelo?  
  
Hmm, Tremelo. Nice guy once you get to know him. He watched Steve's reaction out of the corner of his eye. Helped save your life, you know. He stifled his smug satisfaction as Steve's jaw dropped.  
  
This, I've got to hear. OK, Dad. I'm hooked. What the hell happened?  
  
Mark related the story with judicious editing in parts, trying to keep the tone light. He found this more difficult to relive that he had expected. He realised that the only way he had successfully pulled off such a deception was that, with Steve so near death, he had been able to draw on the depth of emotion such an event would cause. Now, safe in a cozy room with his son conscious beside him, his mind shied away from the emotional upheaval this memory caused.  
  
He obviously hadn't done such a good job of hiding his reactions because Steve reached out and patted his arm as it lay on the bed. He made no comment though, and Mark continued. By the end, Steve was shaking his head in a mixture of incredulity and pride.  
  
Only you, Dad, only you. He started to laugh. You know, this whole thing has been backwards from beginning to end. The man trying to kill me is instrumental is saving my life, and after all my efforts to keep you alive, it wasn't even you they were trying to kill.  
  
Mark looked at him wryly. He was happy to see his son's sense of humour emerge again. However, he didn't find it nearly so funny that his son was actually the target. The truth was it terrified him. Death had ventured entirely too close to his son and he wanted no repetition of recent events. Steve, though, was unperturbed by the news that he was the target, infinitely preferring it to the alternative.  
  
So, where do we go from here? he asked, yawning as the effort of communicating started to weigh on his damaged lungs.  
  
Mark suggested impishly, since you're now officially the target, not me, it's your turn to disappear for a while in a safe house.  
  
Not a chance. Steve's splutter of indignation turned into a coughing fit, and Mark helped him drink some water before settling him back into the pillows. Once he was comfortable, Mark resumed a trifle remorsefully, reluctantly relinquishing the pleasant daydream of Steve safely tucked away.  
  
he mused, putting me in a safe house probably helped to keep _you_ safe, another of the ironies that have dogged us recently. Staying apart prevented anyone from fulfilling the terms of the contract.  
  
Well, I'd be climbing the walls within days. Steve shuddered dramatically to illustrate his dislike of the concept, then continued in a more hopeful tone. Talking of which, I don't suppose you're going to let me out of here anytime soon, are you?  
  
Mark firmly quashed that thought. Not until we see that pneumonia clearing up and you recover more of your strength. You've been through a lot.   
  
Steve could hear the unspoken implication that he would probably need all his stamina and energy when he left the hospital, but he was too tired to worry about it. Besides, his faith in his father's deductive abilities was implicit. You'll probably have figured out the whole thing by that time. He yawned again and edged a little further down in the bed. Maybe Fast Eddie can shed some light on the issue.  
  
Mark grimaced, hating to impart bad news at this time. I'm sorry, son, he died two days ago.  
  
Damn it! Frustration temporarily overrode Steve's exhaustion. I suppose we'll never know what really happened in that alley.  
  
I think it was most likely a hit on Fast Eddie. We've seen Tremelo's tendency to remove incriminating witnesses, and if he was aware that he had been identified, that would have been his first instinct. However it could have been some of his hirelings jumping the gun. Mark could tell that Steve was barely listening, a frown on his face indicating his distress over his informant's death. He sought around for a more positive direction for his son's thoughts.  
  
I do have some good news for you. Adams and Vorderman both survived the crash with nothing worse that a concussion and a broken leg respectively. I saw them briefly yesterday, and they sent their best wishes.  
  
Steve brightened at this welcome information, and, for the next few minutes, they chatted about inconsequentials. However, Mark could see his son's progressive exhaustion and soon called a halt to the proceedings. Steve didn't protest as he was settled down in the bed.  
  
Seeing his father planting himself in the chair beside the bed again sparked a memery that had recently floated to the surface, and Steve said drowsily, I remember that dinosaur, it really scared me for some reason, but you told me not to worry, that it was so old, its teeth had fallen out and it could only limp around harmlessly. I still recall your impression of a toothless, arthritic T-Rex hobbling round my room. You made me laugh, then you stayed till I fell asleep..... Just before sleep claimed him he muttered, You always were good at chasing away the monsters.  
  
Mark was surprised to feel the heat of sudden moisture in his eyes. The knowledge that his son had been aware of the words he had uttered in desperation was a poignant gift. He looked down at Steve's slumbering form, his breathing eased by the relaxation of sleep, and marveled at the lifetime of memories they had shared, memories that he now fully believed had prevented Steve, poised on the edge of oblivion, from taking that final step into the void. He was determined to ensure that no one would steal the time they still had together to enjoy and create new memories.  



	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12  
  
Under normal circumstances, Steve was, if not a model patient, at least a cooperative one. The courtesy and quiet common sense that served him so well in his job carried over into the equally stressful surroundings of the hospital. After all, a childhood surrounded by medical professionals had instilled not only respect for the personnel but also an understanding of the necessity of the procedures to be undergone. His goal, when he had the misfortune to land in hospital, was to work hard and do what was required to restore himself to peak physical condition, and he realised that to achieve that, he must follow the directions of those more knowledgeable than himself to prevent exacerbating his condition. It didn't hurt that his enjoyment of the food made his all-too-frequent stays more palatable than to a person with more discerning taste buds.  
  
But these were not normal circumstances. The one situation that turned Steve into the proverbial patient from hell was fear for his father's well-being. At this point, physical restraints became the equipment of choice for his caretakers. So the next five days proved arduous for all involved. Mark spent as much time as possible with his son, but as he gradually resumed his medical duties, his prolonged absences caused Steve to fret and grow increasingly impatient with his physical limitations, even though either Jesse or Amanda was always present if Mark was not, and did their utmost to distract him. Jesse pointed out with some acerbity that he was the target, not Mark, but it was Steve's privately held opinion that psychopaths couldn't be expected to be consistent. The nutcase wanted to hurt his father, and there was no telling when he might decide to strike at him directly instead of obliquely through Steve. It didn't help that the prime suspects all worked at this hospital, perfectly positioned, with many potentially lethal weapons at their disposal if they chose to use them.  
  
Cheryl's investigations had shown that both Stedman and Narimba had Caller ID, and both had some irregularities in their financial records about which she longed to question them. But, to her intense annoyance, Narimba was away presenting a paper at a medical conference in Baltimore, and Stedman had been called away on a family emergency. Cheryl had been unable to track down his ex-wife to confirm this explanation. The only good news she had to offer was that word out on the street suggested that Tremelo had left the country, and there were no new rumours making the rounds of a replacement designated to finish the job. Despite this, Newman kept a guard on Steve's room, and one followed Mark on his rounds and, now Steve was going home, he had arranged to have a man stationed near each entrance to the house.  
  
Mark hadn't been home since the shooting nearly two weeks before, although he had arranged for a work crew to make some repairs. He had slept at the hospital every night, doubting that Steve would get much rest any other way.   
He was now looking forward to the comfort and familiarity of his own room and a soft bed to soothe his aching back. He eyed his house appreciatively as two of their guards went inside to check for possible intruders or booby traps. Upon receiving the all-clear, he helped Steve out of the car, then hovered as unobtrusively as possible as Steve slowly made his way up the steps, using a cane as support. Although the pneumonia had improved and his injuries were healing well, he still tired easily. Jesse had lectured him severely before he left the hospital, emphasising that adequate rest was important to maintain his progress towards full recovery and to avoid the danger of relapse.  
  
Mark had asked Jesse to handle Steve's continued treatment, feeling the need to focus on his role as father instead of as doctor. While he had enjoyed the return to normalcy involved in starting rounds again, his nights were plagued by nightmares -- jumbled images of cutting into his son with blunt knives, Steve somehow awake and conscious, and, throughout it all, a red haze of blood. He knew he was attempting to counteract these disturbing dreams by fussing over his son, but Steve tolerated his attention with no complaints, seeming to appreciate the sentiment behind it and reciprocating the concern that he understood motivated it.  
  
Why don't you lie down while I get us some dinner? Mark suggested, noting that the journey from the hospital room had exhausted his son's minimal reserves. Steve didn't argue, merely choosing the sofa as his temporary bed, though Mark wasn't sure if his decision was influenced by a disinclination to face more stairs or a reluctance to stray too far from his father. Mark had noted with amusement that he wasn't the only one suffering from compulsive overprotectivness in the aftermath of the tensions of the last two weeks.  
  
He put a kettle on to boil and went to his room for a light blanket which he draped over his already dozing son. He lightly drew it up over his shoulders, then stood for a while, watching. He wondered if parents ever stopped being fascinated by the sight of their children asleep. He was brought back to the present by the whistle of the kettle and moved over to the kitchen to work on the meal.  
  
He turned on some classical music at a low volume so as not to disturb his son, then he chopped up some onions, enjoying the monotonous triviality of the task, and looking forward to a home-cooked meal. Moving over to the sink to wash his hands, he gazed out of the window. The sun was slipping into the sea, pulling lengthening shadows behind it and bathing the scattered wispy clouds with a gentle orange glow. It was a beautiful sight and one that he never failed to appreciate.  
  
He never knew what alerted him, a soft sound or displacement of air, but whatever it was it came too late and, before he could react, cold metal pressed against his temple and a low voice spoke menacingly in his ear.   
  
Don't move!  



	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13  
  
Mark stifled his first instinct, which was to shout a warning to Steve, not because of possible injury to himself, but because he realised that there was no chance that his son would take the opportunity to escape while his father was in danger but would, in fact, confront the man threatening him. He obeyed the intruder's instructions and remained motionless and quiet, hoping that Steve would stay asleep on the sofa and that, by some miracle, his presence would elude the gunman. This forlorn hope was dashed by the man's next words.  
  
Where's Steve?  
  
It wasn't much, but there was a familiarity of cadence that teased at Mark's memory and quickly burst into recognition.  
  
he stated flatly, finally identifying the man behind the terror of the last few weeks. Slowly and unthreateningly he started to turn, and the gun eased away from his head to allow the movement. Disbelief and the bitterness of betrayal warred with fear internally, but he kept his expression studiously neutral, as he found himself facing his colleague and erstwhile friend, Bill Stedman. A million questions raced through his mind, the only one reaching the level of coherence was why', but he didn't even articulate that. He realised from one glance that Stedman was walking a fine line of insanity, and he wasn't sure what would push him over. His eyes held a feverish glint, and the gun trembled in his hand, but Mark sensed it wasn't from timidity or indecision but a result of the power of emotions coursing through him.  
  
Although he needed to understand what was driving Stedman, Mark's first priority was to safeguard his son; but he was at a loss to find a reasonable excuse to move the other doctor out of the kitchen. He knew it was a lame attempt, but finally he suggested:  
  
Why don't we sit down in my study and you can......   
  
A bellow of anger violently interrupted Mark and accomplished the one thing he was attempting to avoid.  
  
  
  
Mark was terrified by the look of savage satisfaction on Stedman's face as he looked beyond Mark to where Steve was pushing himself into an upright position on the sofa. Mark instinctively placed himself between the gun and his son, retreating as Stedman moved forward.  
  
Don't hurt him. Your argument's with me, he tried unsuccessfully to distract Stedman, then, desperate to remove the other doctor's attention from his son, he shouted, I'm the one you want.  
  
Mark succeeded in regaining the gunman's focus just as he felt Steve's steady presence behind him, his hand on his shoulder. He moved his own hand behind him to grasp his son's sleeve, silently urging him to stay in his shielded position.   
  
Steve acknowledged his father's old friend coolly, also opting for an unantagonistic approach for now.  
  
Stedman used his gun to wave them back to the sofa. Sit down, both of you.  
  
After a quick exchange of looks, they obeyed. Mark kept his hand on his son's arm as he sat, ostensibly in a position of restraint, but in reality as a way of anticipating his movements. He knew his son too well to expect him to sit passively while their lives were threatened, and he wanted the warning to be able to support him when the time came to act. He had to believe that time would come, that maybe he could distract Stedman to give Steve more of a chance. In his silent communication with his son, Mark had seen that Steve recognised the role they each must play to survive this encounter. Mark would be the voice of reason and comfort, while Steve would prod and goad, seeking a weakness to give them the opening they needed.  
  
You can't get away with this, Bill, you must know that. Steve was unsure if Stedman was aware of the police presence outside and had no intention of revealing their existence. It was possible that they could attract attention is some way to get assistance. A gunshot would achieve that end, but was not a desirable event, though Steve filed away the thought for future reference. His comment was more in the nature of a probe for information rather than a threat. They needed to break through Stedman's reticence and encourage him to talk, both as a means to buy time and as a way to gather more facts to determine their strategy.   
  
Get away with it, Stedman snorted derisively. He started to pace, the energy of his violent emotions impossible to contain. Mark felt Steve quiver beside him as he contemplated an attack now the gun was no longer trained on his father. However, Stedman was too far out of reach; Mark squeezed his son's arm warningly and felt him subside. I don't need to get away with it. It' s all over. Nothing matters any more.  
  
Steve had got some answers, but the words and their manner of delivery chilled him. He had seen the same expression on a face once before in his rookie days. A man in a packed bus with explosives strapped to him, a man with nothing to lose, wanting to die but, twisted with depravity, wanting to take as many other people as possible with him. A sharpshooter had ended his life before he could carry out his homicidal intentions, but Steve had never forgotten the look of abject despair intermixed with corrosive hate in his eyes. He recognised the same emotions in the man in front of him.  
  
The hopelessness had obviously registered with his father, because when Mark spoke, his voice was full of gentle compassion. I don't understand, Bill. What happened?  
  
You happened! Steve tensed again as the gun swung around to menace his father. Your interfering hypocrisy. You destroyed everything, everything important to me, and now I'm going to take what's important to you.   
  
The gun now turned to aim at Steve, and Mark involuntarily cried out, . He jumped to his feet, ready to do absolutely anything to prevent his son from being shot, and his desperation provided the inspiration that enabled him to make the connection.  
  
This is about Keith, isn't it? he forced out through a dry throat, light-headed with relief as the gun wavered and dipped into a less sinister position. He reseated himself, the realisation sinking in that this confrontation was not between two doctors or two friends, but between two fathers. Fear trickled in icy rivulets down his spine at the stakes that had been figuratively thrown on the table. He had no doubts that his son's life would be forfeit if he misplayed his hand.  
  
He sensed that Steve was about to follow up his enquiry, so he applied slight pressure to his arm to signal silence. Keith Stedman was dead, he was certain of that, but why he was being held responsible for the tragedy was incomprehensible; he hadn't even seen the young man in question for over two years, but his instincts told him to tread carefully on this issue. He thought back, trying to remember his last meeting with Keith, and an unpleasant possibility crept into his mind.  
  
You killed him. Stedman saw the dawning of understanding, and his vitriolic rancor spilled over in a torrent of words. You did worse than that -- you destroyed him, crushed his dreams and cast him aside like so much trash.  
  
No, it wasn't like that. The colour drained from Mark's face as he struggled to defend his actions, shaken by the accusation. You know how it works, it was a committee decision. I only....  
  
You're in charge of the interns; it was your rejection that influenced them, and you were the one who told him with such callous brutality.  
  
Yes, I broke the news to him, but he seemed fine, almost relieved... Again Stedman didn't allow him to finish, caught up in the righteousness of his assertions.  
  
Fine? So fine he tried to kill himself two days later! I was the one who found him. Stedman choked, tears filling his eyes at the memory of that anguish. He'd taken an overdose of phenobarbytol, and he'd stopped breathing, but his heart was still beating. I gave him CPR. Oh, God, do you have any idea what it's like to have your own child dying in your arms? Do you? His voice ended in a scream of accusation.  
  
It may have been intended as a rhetorical question, but it placed Mark on a steady footing again.  
  
Yes, I do, he answered steadily. He thought back, not only to the events of the last week, but also to the horrifying memory that still haunted his dreams of applying CPR to his own son after he coded due to the effects of a virulent staph infection. It's the most indescribably painful experience that anyone can endure. He caught Stedman's eyes with the force of his conviction, and tried to forge a bridge of mutual suffering between them. You realise that you were wrong about everything you once thought was important. The only thing that matters is that he takes one more breath, that his heart beats one more time. Because if it doesn't, your life will be shattered into pieces so small nothing could put it together again.  
  
Steve's breath caught painfully in his throat. He had never heard his father speak of such things before. While supremely generous in sharing his joy, Mark was private to the point of secrecy in hiding his pain; but now, in a quiet compelling voice, he revealed his innermost heartache. Steve thought his father had succeeded in breaking through to the other man as, for a brief moment, Stedman's expression seemed to echo Mark's, but in the next minute his offering was savagely rejected.  
  
Don't tell me that you understand what I'm feeling, not while you sit there smugly, your son by your side. Hot venom dripped from every word. You've lost nothing -- yet! The threat was anything but subtle, and Mark realised that he had made a mistake in assuming that Stedman wanted the comfort of reciprocation. He wanted to wallow uninterrupted in his own grief, as only that could justify the revenge that filled the empty spaces inside him.  
  
You tried to save him, Mark prompted, sensing there was more to come.  
  
I did everything I could, but there was too much brain damage; and with all my years of training and medical knowledge, all I succeeded in doing was to turn him into a vegetable. He's been in a coma for two years, just lying there. Mary refused to turn off life support; she believed a miracle would save him, but I couldn't let it go on any longer. I went to the hospital yesterday and I...I...oh, god. He broke off, turning to Mark almost in supplication. I pulled the plug on my own son. I let him go.  
  
Mark stared at him in horrified empathy, his experiences with his own son on life support too raw to listen to such a story with equanimity. However, at no time did his compassion for the other man prevent him from remembering the threat he posed to Steve, and even while he listened, one part of his mind was trying to find a way to use the information to their advantage. There was something about Stedman's reaction that didn't ring true; but as he tried to pin down the elusive undercurrent, his concentration was broken as Stedman's next words sank in.  
  
Mary tried to stop me and, God help me, I hit her. I never meant to hurt her, but she fell and hit her head. It's all over now. All dead, they're all dead.  
  
Stedman seemed to have almost forgotten his audience and continued to mumble to himself. He was too far away to risk tackling, but Steve was able catch his father's eye and hold another quick non-verbal conversation. They both realised that Stedman was beyond rationality, he had thoroughly burned his bridges before he came. He had nothing left to live for and obviously intended none of them to leave the room alive. Steve contemplated rushing the gun, depending on any shots fired to bring help for his father, but Mark discouraged any impulsive moves with a shake of his head. A plan was coalescing in his mind; it was dangerous, but he felt he was on the right track.  
  
What did you say to him? Mark's voice was hard now, no longer sympathetic, and the contrast was enough to startle Stedman out of his reverie.  
  
There was an edge of fear, covered by belligerence, in his voice, but Mark continued his verbal offensive, his face grim.  
  
Keith told me the only reason he was in the intern program was because you had pulled some strings to have him included. He had no interest in becoming a doctor, he just wanted to please you. When I told him the committee couldn't recommend him for the residency program, he was relieved that the pretense was over, but he dreaded telling you. I told him I was sure you would understand, but you didn't, did you? What did you tell him?  
  
Steve could feel his heart hammering against his ribs. His father seemed to be intentionally pushing Stedman over the edge. As a diversionary tactic it seemed to be working. Steve had a feeling he could stand up and dance a jig without attracting attention back to himself, however the gun pointing directly at his father's chest was an effective deterrent to sudden moves. Stedman was transfixed by Mark relentless interrogation, though his head was shaking from side to side in anguished denial.  
  
No.... no, it wasn't me. You were the one who destroyed him. I loved him.  
  
Did he know that? Did you ever tell him? What did you say to him? Did you call him a failure, a loser? Mark was suddenly on his feet and advancing towards Stedman inexorably, a one-man judge and jury. However, he moved on a line that forced the other man to turn almost imperceptibly at a slight angle away from Steve. Did you belittle him, force him to fit the image of the son you wanted?  
  
Stedman screamed, and Steve could sense the buildup of some internal momentum signaling the decision to fire, and with a cry to attract the gunman's attention away from his father, he launched himself towards the gun. His recent illness and injuries had robbed him of his usual speed and agility, and Stedman had time to turn in his direction before Steve's body slammed into him, bearing them both to the floor to the accompaniment of the gun firing.  
  
Mark stared at the two bodies lying still on the floor, the horror of deja vu turning his limbs leaden as he stumbled to his son. In a nightmare of fear he frantically searched for a wound, knowing Steve was unlikely to survive further trauma in his weakened state. He felt his son stir beneath his hands and heard a gasp of just winded, and relief swung dizzily through his shaking body as he helped Steve sit up. His face was gray and pained, but before Mark had the chance to assess his condition, three armed policemen burst in at the doors. Their arrival was somehow so anticlimactic that Mark was hard pressed not to laugh. By the time their questions and concerns had been addressed, Steve had recovered enough to take charge of the situation, and Mark was able to turn his attention to Stedman.  
  
Stedman was sitting in a forlorn heap on the floor, his hands cuffed behind him. With the threat to Steve finally at an end, Mark could be more objective in his evaluation of the man's mental state. He knelt down next to his old friend. He felt Steve move into position behind him, vigilant for any residual signs of violence, but Mark was sure Stedman had no fight left in him. He could almost see the disintegration of his spirit as he watched him.  
  
He attempted gently to get man's attention. When there was no response, he put his hand on his shoulder and tried again a little louder. Stedman finally looked up, but there was no recognition in his dull eyes.  
  
I never told him I loved him. His voice was a grinding whisper of anguish. My only child, and I never told him how much I loved him. I wanted him to be strong, to be a man, but instead... instead I drove him to kill himself. I killed my own son. He started rocking back and forth, and his mouth continued to move but no sound came out.  
  
Mark turned and looked up at Steve, a measure of the pain he was witnessing reflected in his eyes. I need to take him to the hospital. He needs psychiatric help, a lot of it. He'll never make it to a trial.  
  
Steve considered the request, admiring his father's compassion. After all they had suffered in the last few weeks, he didn't feel quite so magnanimous to their defeated enemy. However, he was unable to reject Mark's appeal, and he arranged for a police ambulance to transport Stedman to Community General.  
  
As they watched the van disappear out of the driveway, Steve slipped his arm round his father's shoulders. It's all over, Dad.  
  
For us, maybe, Mark replied sadly, but sensing his son's immediate concern at his uncharacteristic melancholy, he attempted to shake off the feeling and match Steve's ebullience. I believe I mentioned something about dinner.  
  
You did. Steve affected great surprise. You know, I actually think I'm hungry.  
  
So what else is new. Come on, you need to sit down before you fall down.  
  
Steve allowed his father to shepherd him back inside the house, deciding not to press him about the cause of his despondancy. It had been a traumatic few weeks, and tonight had seen not only the culmination of the constant threat and tension they had been under, but Mark's deepest fears and emotions dredged up for public view. It would take some time for the reaction to fade and the emotions to calm. Fortunately, he thought, they would have that time together. 


	14. Epilogue

Author's Note: Thank you to all the people who have taken the time to leave a review and especially to those of you who have encouraged and supported me by e-mail. This feedback is immensely appreciated. 

Epilogue 

"Dad, I'm home," Steve called out as he closed the front door behind him. He dropped the mail on the kitchen table and started to sort through it, pausing at one flimsy piece of card with a frown on his face. "Dad?" he called again, realising that his previous salutation had remained unanswered. The echo of silence through the house convinced him that his father wasn't there. He absentmindedly slipped the postcard into his pocket as he searched for a note or some other indication of his father's whereabouts. His car was in the driveway, so he couldn't be too far away.

Concern sparked to life as a brief hunt turned up no clues as to Mark's location. It was not fear for his father's physical well-being, but the five days since Stedman's arrest had not been easy ones for Mark. Not many people would have seen a difference in the good-natured doctor, he was as cheerful and compassionate as ever, but Steve was attuned to the nuances of his father's behaviour and could sense an underlying dissonance in his normally sunny disposition. Faint smudges under his eyes spoke of restless nights, and Steve had caught his air of pensive preoccupation when Mark was unaware of his scrutiny. Steve had hoped a quiet evening would allow him to address his concerns, but between Mark's work and frequent visitors the time had never been propitious.

Steve had expected a certain amount of introspection following the trauma of previous weeks, but he was worried that his father, with his strong sense of responsibility, had believed the accusations Stedman had fired in his direction. Although Steve had another week before he was allowed to return to duty, he had gone into the police station and then the hospital to discover the truth behind Keith Stedman's suicide attempt. Now, armed with the facts, he was ready to help his father come to terms with recent events.

Steve walked out onto the deck, his eyes scanning the beach, and a smile broke out on his face as he quickly discovered the familiar figure sitting on "his" log. Steve had come to regard it as "his" place for problem solving, and he had lost count of the number of times he had been sitting there, struggling with personal or work-related issues, when his father had quietly appeared to sit next to him and, either with simply his loving supportive presence or his perceptive advice, eased things back into perspective. He felt that his father's choice of location consciously or unconsciously signaled a readiness and desire to talk.

He received a welcoming smile from Mark, and for a time they sat together in companionable silence, enjoying the relaxing swell of the water and the hypnotic sound of the waves breaking onto the sand.

It was Steve who eventually broached the topic that was on both their minds, though in a roundabout fashion. "I saw Mary Stedman today." 

Whatever Mark was expecting, it wasn't that, and he turned to look at his son in surprise. They had heard that Mary Stedman had survived her husband's attack, but she had not been in any condition for visitors before. 

"How is she?" he asked with genuine concern.

"She's doing well, physically at least. She had a nasty concussion, but it's clearing up well. In a strange way, this all seems to have come as a relief -- closure after the last two years of living in a sort of emotional limbo. She asked me to convey her apologies to you." Steve saw his father flinch at that, but pressed on. "She had no idea that Bill's anger had become so obsessive."

Mark shook his head. "I just feel I should have realised that something was wrong. Maybe I could have done something to help." 

Steve quickly squashed that tendril of guilt. "I got the feeling they worked hard to keep it a secret. There seems to be a certain stigma attached to the family of suicide victims. Mary said it was hard enough blaming themselves for not preventing it without dealing with the feeling that other people were blaming them too."

"It must have been terrible for them both." Mark could empathise only too well with the anguish they had endured.

"Yes, maybe especially for Bill. You were right about him, you know. Apparently, after he heard that Keith had been dropped from the internship program, he lit into him, calling him all the names under the sun, threatening to disown him and generally making him feel worthless. I don't know how much of it he meant or how much it was a contributing factor in Keith's decision, but he must have felt dreadful afterwards."

Mark had been working with Stedman's psychologist and knew just how deeply the guilt had drilled into the doctor's psyche. "Visiting his son in hospital every week meant the pain never had the chance to recede. I think he was unable to cope with the remorse so, in self-defense, he transferred the blame onto me." 

"But you know that none of this was your fault, Dad, right?" Steve queried with some anxiety.

"I could still have followed up, checked that Keith was okay." The words may have sounded self-accusatory, but Steve relaxed slightly at the tone. Mark had spoken with gentle regret, but not as if he had internalised any guilt. 

"It just didn't work out that way, Dad." The words sounded familiar, and he smiled faintly as he realised it was more or less what his father had said to comfort him after Lynn Conklin's death. 

"If Bill recovers, is he going to stand trial for disconnecting Keith's life support system?" Mark asked. "I don't think he would survive that."

"I don't think so," Steve reassured him. "Mary's declining to press charges against him. She obviously still cares a lot about him, but after .......well, she said they just drifted apart."

"Nothing is more devastating than the loss of a child." The words were barely audible, but as Steve instinctively reached out to lay a hand on his knee, he continued in a stronger voice. "Many marriages prove unequal to that." 

Silence resumed, but Steve didn't move, sensing that something was still troubling his father and willing to wait as long as necessary for him to talk. Eventually, in a quiet voice but with strange precision, Mark said:

"I love you, son."

The comment was unexpected, and although welcome, it was also curiously disconcerting, and instead of accepting it solely at face value, Steve mentally retraced the path of their conversation, finally understanding his father's unspoken concern.

"You're nothing like him, Dad," he said forcefully. The sudden stillness next to him told Steve he had indeed found the cause of his father's anxiety, and he continued with quiet insistence. "You've always encouraged me to make my own decisions and supported my choices. You never tried to force me into a mold of your own design. Good thing too," he added on a lighter note. "I mean, can you see me as a doctor?" There was a moment of quiet as they both contemplated this mental picture, then in unison they both rejected the idea with an emphatic "Nah!" Encouraged by the burgeoning smile on his father's face and the relaxation of the tension in his body, Steve concluded, "You can't ever compare yourself to Stedman."

"Maybe not," Mark conceded, scuffling a toe in the sand. "But I nearly lost you last week and it made me think of all the things I've never told you. I haven't said I love you...."

"Yes you have," Steve interrupted. "You told me every time you showed up at my football games despite your busy schedule, every time you sat by the hospital bed when I was hurt....." He paused, unused to putting these feelings into words and finding it difficult to articulate how his father's love encompassed his life.

"Every time I get involved in one of your cases?" Mark suggested helpfully, with a mischievous gleam in his eye, his heart considerably lighter.

"Let's not get carried away here." Steve raised an eyebrow in mock consternation then added more seriously. "Really Dad, you've told me every day of my life, in one way or another."

"Still, it doesn't hurt to put it into words occasionally," Mark told him softly. Despite his caveat, Steve's words had soothed the last of his doubts, and Mark was finally able to truly relax and savor the beauty of the evening and the joy of his son's company.

As the sun dipped lower, Steve stood up and stretched down a hand to pull his father to his feet. "Come on. Let's go for a walk on the beach. Oh, I almost forgot..." He pulled the postcard out of his pocket and handed it to his father with a quizzical look. The picture on the front featured a pristine beach in the Cayman Islands. Mark turned it over and read: 

' Hi Doc, 

Not bad, you had me fooled. No hard feelings, going legit is the best thing that ever happened to me. If you're ever in the mood for a vacation, look me up here.' 

It was signed only with a 'T'.

Mark looked up, incredulous laughter in his eyes. "Tremelo?"

"It appears so. Tell me, Dad, is this going to be a regular occurrence? Should I expect frequent correspondence from the FBI's most wanted?"

"Well, he's reformed," Mark pointed out reasonably. "Still," he grinned at his son. "It solves the problem of where to go on our next vacation, doesn't it? Think of the information we could pick up. I bet we could bust a dozen cases wide open."

"No!" Steve protested, more at the mental image the words summoned of his father sitting around a pool sipping margaritas while cozying up to crime bosses than because he took the suggestion seriously. Mark stared at him innocently. 

Steve slung his arm affectionately around his father's shoulders as they meandered down the beach.

"Only you, Dad, only you!"


End file.
